1 Sept 2026
Mark Turner BVSc, MRCVS shares the tenth part of this story, in which Ali, Louise and Margaret all reflect on how being a vet can make you feel lonely – even on holiday.
Mark Turner
Job Title
Louise woke up and looked over her shoulder. Ali was asleep in the other armchair, a blanket across her legs.
The room felt peaceful at the start of the day: a large house plant looked like an old woman with a cane. Above their heads, a spear of orange sunlight pointed towards the French doors; occasionally, a lorry rumbled along the overpass in the distance.
“Ooh, I don’t feel good,” Ali groaned.
“You all right?”
“Sort of. One too many vodkas. Oh God, did we both crash here last night?”
“Yeah. Don’t think we made it to the end of the film.”
“Sorry, and I was going to make up a bed for you, wasn’t I? Do you mind if I doze for a minute and then I’ll make some tea.”
“Of course.” Louise continued to look around. She found herself enjoying the small discoveries: the pattern on a rug; the journal that Ali had left open on the coffee table, something about rabbit behaviour. Next to it a pink phone charger, sweet wrappers and a shopping list: bread, milk, cheese, chocolate, exclamation mark.
“Ali, do you ever feel lonely?” Louise asked the question before thinking.
There was a pause.
“Mmm? Yeah… some of the time. Not when you’re on shift, of course. Why do you ask?”
“I just wondered. I suppose I worry about you. All that responsibility…”
“I blame myself, though, for not getting out more. You know, joining a running club, a choir. I did all that at university. It’s my fault, the loneliness.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. Your days are so long.”
“Yeah…” They were still both curled up like two contented cats. “Do you ever get lonely?”
“Occasionally,” Louise said. “When James is away, or I can”t get hold of my mum to have a chat.”
“I miss my mum.”
Margaret took another sip of coffee and leant back in her chair. A middle-aged woman with a well-groomed papillon took a seat beside her.
This really is the best café in the whole of Paris, she thought to herself. The sun was lighting up the rooftops across the street – blood red and pewter grey. Her drink was at a perfect temperature and her last cigarette was still a warm memory, slowing down time, slowing her down. I’ll stop when I get back, I always do.
The small dog looked at his owner and started barking.
“Arrêt Bavard.”
Bavard stopped and licked his nose. Margaret and Bavard’s owner exchanged a smile. “Il est… très beau.”
“Oh, thank you,” the lady said. “He is always talking, so I call him Bavard; it means chatterbox in French.”
Bavard started barking again, this time looking at Margaret.
“He is chatty, isn’t he? It’s a pity we don’t know what they are saying.”
“Ah, yes, it is true. Perhaps he is asking me for a haircut?” They laughed together.
“You are here on a holiday?”
“Oh, just a short break. Paris is my favourite city.”
“You are by yourself?”
“Yes… but it’s fine.”
“Lucky you. I sometimes think I would be happier if it was just Bavard and me. He talks more than my husband, anyway.”
Margaret smiled politely. The lady picked Bavard up and started stroking his face, speaking in French to him. Margaret couldn’t make out what she was saying, but they both looked perfectly content.
The street was busy, cars queued for a set of traffic lights, a group of three office workers, all looking at their phones walked past.
Margaret finished her coffee and stood up. She wanted to stroke the small dog before leaving, but could see that it would mean nothing to him. “It was nice to meet you.”
“Oh, and you. I hope you enjoy the rest of your time here.”
* * *
Margaret adjusted her top as she sat down in the dimly lit bar that evening. She looked around. There was a scattering of customers, businessmen, a couple sipping cocktails. To her left was a floor lamp. Good, just bright enough to read my book by. An expectation hung in the air; it was like being at her best friend’s house the night before Christmas.
“Good evening, madame. Can I get you a drink?”
The waiter wasn’t much more than a silhouette. It was a pleasant feeling to pretend that he wasn’t a hotel worker at all.
“Oh, err, yes, I’ll have a glass of white wine.”
“Did you have one in mind?”
Margaret opened the menu and scanned the regions: Alsace, Bordeaux, Burgundy, a classification, she was good at this sort of thing, but she was on a budget… 95 euros. Her finger continued to trace a line down the page.
“I’ll have the Chablis please. Un grand verre de Chablis, monsieur.”
The waiter cocked his head slightly to see what Margaret was pointing at. “A good choice.”
“Really?”
“Yes, madame. It is my favourite.” He smiled. “Are you waiting for someone, or are you alone?”
Margaret looked into his eyes now. His face was brighter as she grew accustomed to the light. “No, it is just me tonight.”
He walked off. Am I alone? She searched for the book in her bag. Coming across the spine was like finding a familiar organ in an abdomen. There it is. She did feel a bit lonely sitting at the cafe with Bavard and his owner, then later, walking by the Seine as the sun set. Margaret had a small realisation: I find being a vet lonely at times, I really do. It’s just the way it makes me feel.
But talking helps; all the more important to talk, she reminded herself. Paris had taught her that.
Mark Turner graduated as a vet from the University of Liverpool in 1996 and has a master’s degree from the RVC in patient safety culture. He has interests in quality improvement, team dynamics and workplace well-being.