Sometimes, there's nothing you can do.

I was struggling to pick out the words over the bleating of sheep. A young woman was on the other end of the line speaking hesitantly.

“It's my boyfriend's dog, he's not very well – he was a bit off colour yesterday and didn't want his food and now he doesn't want to do anything. When I lifted his lip he's pale and cold. I don't know if he should be seen?”

I didn't like the sound of this one at all, and I asked her to meet me at the surgery.

I was unlocking the shutters when a large pick up rolled up. I opened the surgery door whilst a girl in her early twenties brought in a large bundle of black and white - a collie dog, thin and unable to stand.

“He's gone right downhill in the last hour.” He looked like he was panting with his mouth closed, his cheeks blowing out, his whole belly fluttering as he struggled to keep up.

“How old is he now?”

“He's just four, he had a car accident a month ago, could it be that?” I tried to stifle a surprised “Jesus!” He looked like an old man. I lifted his lip and felt my stomach lurch towards my boots, my face draining. I couldn't keep it in this time “Oh my God.” He was white. I have never seen a dog that white still alive. His gums were cold and sticky. His heart hammered in his chest trying desperately to pump enough blood around his failing body but there was nothing there to pump.

“My partner is away down South for a few days, I'm looking after the dog and the farm”

Gently feeling his belly I found what I had feared – it was full and sloshy, I could feel the liquid vibrating in response to my touch. Just to be sure I stuck a needle in and pulled back on the syringe, watching it fill with blood. For whatever reason this dog’s blood was falling out of his veins and into his abdomen.

“Do you have horses? Could he have been kicked?”

“We do have horses but he hasn't been near them for days.” I didn't know the reason for his problem, but I did know I couldn't fix it myself.

“He's bleeding into his belly very badly, he may well have ruptured his spleen. You have two options. His only hope of surviving is to go to the hospital in the town for emergency surgery – I'm not experienced enough to tackle it here myself and he'll need another vet to look after the anaesthetic as he's so unstable. He'll also need a blood transfusion. And even with all that there are no guarantees. You're looking at well over a thousand pounds.” Every time I touched him, he wagged his tail. “The other option is to call it a day. I hate this, but there's nothing I can do for him.” I paused to allow my words to sink in.  “Do you need to speak to your boyfriend?”

“No” she said, tears starting to swell in her eyes “there's no point”.

I drew up a fatal dose of barbiturate whilst she spoke to the dog and told him what a good boy he had been. He put his head in her hand and wagged his tail. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat but couldn't. His veins were all collapsed so I had to use a tourniquet to try and build up enough pressure to find one. He sat still and allowed me to slide the needle in, slipping away very quickly with no fight left in him.

I fetched a blanket and wrapped him carefully then placed him in the back of the pick-up as gently as I could. Every collie I put down reminds me of my own dogs and hurts a little bit more than the others. Any dog who allows me to jab sharp metal into his legs without a complaint, wagging his tail whilst I take away his life will stay with me for a long time after I leave his side, mop the floor, go home for a cup of tea and a hug from my own faithful hound. Those dogs follow me for weeks, upset that despite all the training and all the knowledge I still wasn't able to save them.