St Lucia
Part Three
Certain etails have been changed to protect anonymity
These events took place in the early ‘80s.
We lived close by. We could see them every day, and eventually, the lure became too great. The day finally arrived when we would attempt to climb the Piton. There are two Pitons – Gros Piton and Petit Piton. Gros was easier to climb, and this one didn’t need mountaineering experience. It was supposed to be a reasonably easy climb to the top and back. It looked fairly imposing, but Reno, Ricky and Maria informed us that they had all reached the top on more than one occasion, and in their opinion, we would be able to do so as well. We were a lot younger then, and of course, being a young man, I reckoned that if Maria the maid could do it, then it would be no problem for us, me in particular. We made sure that we were properly kitted out with stout walking shoes, suitable clothing and carried bottled water. Ricky was to be our guide, and at the last minute, Maria asked if she could come “Just for the exercise.” I viewed the request with some scepticism. She was wearing a long skirt and flip-flops.
“Dressed like that?” I asked incredulously.
Maria flashed me a dazzling smile and replied.
“I’ve done it many times.”
The lads exchanged knowing grins. At the time, I wasn’t sure what they were smiling about, but later the day, I was to find out. We set out early in the morning, and three hours later, we reached the summit. We collapsed onto the ground and drank water. We were dirty, perspiring and exhausted. Maria still looked immaculate, with not a bead of sweat, not a hair out of place, not a mark on her colourful dress. We were lying there panting to get air into our lungs when Maria said.
“I’ll just go down and prepare lunch.” Before I could pass a comment, Maria waved, said “Goodbye,” and disappeared. We hiked back home and sure enough, when we had showered, dinner was on the table. And as for Maria? She still looked immaculate!!
I now knew the reason for the lads knowing smile.
Canine Rescue
The call was precise and to the point.
“Our dog has fallen into the sea.”
When I arrived, it was plain to see what had happened. The dog was a crossbreed of dubious lineage and fairly large. He had fallen off the side of their garden into the sea and was now precariously perched on a large rock. He had only fallen a few feet, but the drop was sheer and getting him to climb back was not a viable option. The garden sloped down to the sea, so it appeared to be a reasonable option for the dog to swim a few yards, reach dry land and be reunited with his owners. There was, however, a problem. The canine in question, who went by the name of Dodger, was a wimp!! Dodger refused all attempts to entice him into the water, and his elderly owners were too infirm to even go paddling to rescue their errant hound. There was only one option. Yours truly would have to remove his socks and shoes and enter the water. Regular readers will be aware that I am not the greatest fan of water. I only reluctantly drink it, never swim in It and, if possible, avoid any form of transport that involves boats. The nearest I come to being in contact with water is in the shower, and I require the water to be reasonable temperature, so the idea of immersing myself in a volume of cold liquid filled me with horror.
“How deep is it,” I asked. They didn’t know. It didn’t look deep, I was sure I could see rocks only a few inches under the surface, but these things can be deceptive. So like an intrepid explorer, I shed socks and shows and took the plunge. Only I didn’t plunge because the water only just covered my ankles as I confidently strode towards Dodger. Now having arrived at the critical juncture to effect a rescue, I realised that Dodger wasn’t wearing a collar, and in my haste to reach the stranded dog I had failed to bring a lead. What’s more the cowardly canine refused point blank to even get his feet wet and steadfastly declined to move. The solution? Yes, you’ve guessed it, I picked the timorous beast up and staggered back to the edge of the garden. Dodger’s grateful owners were profuse in their thanks and suggested that a large tot of single malt whisky would be beneficial as I dried my feet with the voluminous towel provided. Well, it would have been churlish to refuse, wouldn’t it!! Particularly as they replenished my glass several times.
Our next challenge would test Joy’s resolve. I have touched on this issue before, and it concerns how we react when we are removed from our comfort zone. When a veterinary nurse has to look after a human, and in this case, a human nurse is asked to look after an injured dog. The dog in question had suffered burns from a house fire, and someone was needed to nurse the poor animal back to a point where she was able to be returned to her home. This involved application of lotion to the affected areas, administering pain relief, monitoring toilet movements and generally overseeing the dog’s recovery. Joy, who had been a nurse in her younger days, was reluctant. As a veterinary nurse, I understood. Would I want to attend to the medical needs of a human? No. Unfortunately, this was not a time to be sympathetic.
In answer to her saying, “I can’t do this.”
My reply was blunt.
“Then she will die.”
Needless to say, Joy rose to the occasion, and in a fairly short time, the unfortunate animal was over the worse and ready to go home. I am pleased to report that she made a complete recovery. She was never going to be a candidate for a canine Miss World, and she would carry her scars forever, but thanks to Joy’s skills and her ability to go outside her comfort zone, the dog was able to enjoy a fulfilling life.
Rastas
My final act was to meet up with my old nemesis, the inimitable Rastas. He had cut his paw, and a visit was required. Desmond, the local veterinary surgeon, requested I accompany him as Rasta had a fearsome reputation, and I had successfully dealt with him in the past. See St Lucia Part 2. I guess we were both a little apprehensive when we arrived. After all, this was the dog known as “The Killer.”
He wasn’t, of course, but he had inflicted some serious injuries on the owner’s gardener. Mr Masters wasn’t home, and neither of us was happy to rely on the dog-handling skills of Mrs Masters. We fell back on a tried and tested formula. I wrapped my arm in a very large towel, which, when totally used, was several inches thick, enough to absorb both the depth of teeth and the 235 lbs per square inch pressure that a dog of this size could exert. I stepped into the pen and kept as close to the chain link fence as possible Sure enough, Rastas charged, grabbed the improvised padded sleeve and as he did it, I turned so that his rear end was as close to the fence as possible and lightning quick Desmond pushed the syringe containing the tranquillizer through the fence into the Rasta’s bottom. Rastas kept a tight grip on the sleeve until sleep took over, and he eventually slumped to the ground. The cut was examined and found not to need stitching, so the wound was cleaned, dressed and bound up, and the Masters were left with instructions on how to progress.
Desmond and I shook hands, we would never meet again, but wished each other well, and I do not doubt that he became a really proficient and caring veterinary surgeon.
Back Home
Our year was up, and we said our goodbyes to Maria, Ricky and Reno. They looked after us so well and made our stay enjoyable. It was November. I departed St Lucia in temperatures of 30 degrees in shorts and a t-shirt and landed in Brussels. It was 7 degrees! We crossed the Channel, arrived in the UK, and it was 3 degrees and raining!! Welcome home.
“People have been asking me if I am going to have kids, I had puppies instead.”
Kate Jackson