Badge of courage for our sick friends; RECORD PETS.

Byline: By NEIL McINTOSH

SOMETIMES animals make you feel very, very small. Perhaps you are picturing yourself standing next to a towering elephant, or a giant steed, but I don't necessarily mean in a physical sense.

Sometimes, just because of their character or their endurance, animals belittle our ability to withstand pain. I see examples almost daily in my working life.

Perhaps it is the young puppy with a greenstick fracture of a leg bone, who barely even winces when you touch the sore spot.

It might be the old Labrador with conjunctivitis, which must make him feel as if he is blinking gravel, but who stands peacefully wagging his tail as you examine him.

Or maybe it is the overweight Collie who is suffering from acute pancreatitis, whose abdominal pain would make you double over and weep, but who lies quietly in a kennel, surveying the bustling nursing staff with a bright eye.

I can understand that, unlike ourselves, most animals instinctively learn to hide pain.

When we are babies, in this day and age, it doesn't take long for us to discover that a good cry gets Mum running to our aid.

For many in the animal kingdom, this noise would also summon predators, so quiet is required. This is not true, however, for our dogs and cats and yet many still suffer pain with a calm dignity that is quite astonishing.

It is such a common occurrence that it can become easy to take it for granted. These regular acts of heroism become almost mundane as they are repeated over and over again.

Sometimes you have to remind yourself that just because a patient doesn't express pain, doesn't mean it isn't feeling pain.

Then, along comes an individual who is so stalwart that it almost takes your breath away. Jura was one of those. This smiling Collie dog has been one of my most remarkable patients.

I doubt I have the space to tell you properly about all her problems.

For some time she suffered from arthritis that would have crippled me. Her ruptured anterior cruciate ligaments would have ended the career of any footballer.

Her spinal problems would have sent most mortals into a wheelchair and yet, still she ran on, chasing along the beach with her pack of friends.

When it became too much, Jura's owners would prepare for the worst. We would change her painkillers, more in desperation than in hope and wait for a day.

And, wouldn't you know it, Jura would come out the blocks sprinting again.

Quite what gave her the courage, stamina and fortitude to beat death so many times, I will never know.

Her owners certainly helped, giving medication precisely and carefully. Her canine family also pulled her along when the going was especially tough. But most of the time Jura, armed with her incredible resilience, did it herself.

Because she could.