Picture a bungalow in a small remote town in the Congo. It is occupied by an elderly missionary who has neither the money nor the interest to keep it in the spick and span condition of the old days. Evidence of a leaky roof is provided by the blackened sagging ceilings, the floor is cracked and many plastic tiles on the floor are missing or damaged. One of the windows at the entrance is broken and the many walls are stained green or grey from the constant moisture. In the garden are several large cages housing unusual monkeys that he has kindly rescued from some dire fate. At the back are kennels for a few dogs. The whole property has gone wild: fallen trees lie untouched, grass is head height, and assorted wrecked cars and other metal objects are scattered around the edges of the plot.
It is in such a house that the best vet in Kinshasa practices. In spite of the dereliction of the property it is located in one of the smart suburbs.
First impressions of him, as a person, are no more encouraging. He is sallow, gaunt, indeed frighteningly thin. But people swear by him, and we must trust him against our better judgement.
The consulting room has the same characteristics. The examination table is a once-modern device on a single leg that can be raised and lowered hydraulically. That has long since stopped working and its blue paint is faded and chipped. As we put the dog on it, it wobbles alarmingly. Trying not to make it too obvious we check the rest of the room. Veterinary magazines from the 1980s, with a generous covering of cobwebs, fill a metal bookcase. There is an elderly sink with no running water. A desk is placed across one corner: it too is scratched and rickety. The windows are dirty, and the walls filthy.
In the room are three assistants. One, we later discover, is his professional partner; the second is a student from Lubumbashi university, the third his dog handler – I almost called him a dogsbody. Outside there are two more people sitting on the veranda who may or may not work there, but each time we visit they, or people like them, seem to be there. Together they combine to create an atmosphere of indolence and indifference.
But as he starts to examine the animal, he comes to life. Inside this strange exterior, and in this even stranger environment, there is a light and a passion. This is not the production line treatment that we are used to – thermometer in bum, check eyes and mouth, out with stethoscope, heart all right – OK? What seems to be the matter???
No, even though on this occasion we are late and it is a Saturday, he takes his time. Looks at all bases. Discusses the possible diagnosis. Need for a few tests.
That’s when the secrets are revealed. Hidden in this archaic environment are the tools of the modern trade. He lifts a dirty plastic cover to reveal a powerful microscope, and starts to study the piece of dog that he has cut off. He opens the fridge door to reveal pristine rows of medicines and test kits, one of which he selects. He explains that there is a less than 10% chance that this test will be positive – it’s to do with hormone imbalance – but we have to try. He does another test, and eventually, after an hour of examination, a jab and a prescription we leave, impressed. Appearances can truly be deceptive.
Two weeks later we meet someone whose bitch puppy has recently been spayed by the same vet. She tells gruesome stories of the botched stitching of the wound and post-operative infection. The dog’s life was in the balance for a while. It has required massive antibiotics and some remedial stitches, and three weeks after the operation things are by no means certainly fine. Maybe appearances aren’t so deceptive after all . . .
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