Pets in a Pickle

by Malcolm D Welshman

  I stepped back as Mandy marched into the prep room with the usual snap and crackle of her starched uniform.

  ‘What’s all this?’ she said. ‘Not falling out are we? All because of a baby squirrel. Can’t have that.’ Her face was a picture of innocence.

  Liar. I knew damn well she’d love to see us scrapping.

  ‘It’s nothing we can’t sort out,’ said Lucy.

  Mandy smiled sweetly. What saccharine smugness. Pure Mandy-candy. ‘Let’s try a syringe, shall we?’

  That didn’t work either. More milk seemed to spray over the squirrel’s eyes, nose and body than actually went down his throat.

  ‘You’re not holding him properly,’ declared Mandy after several abortive attempts.

  ‘Well, if you think you can do better, you hold him,’ retorted Lucy.

  Uh-oh … there was that tension again, that antagonism, bubbling up between them.

  Better to be out of all this, I thought and quietly tiptoed out.

  ‘We need a teat to suckle,’ Lucy told me when morning surgery was finished.

  ‘You won’t find one small enough,’ I said. I got the ‘Lucy Look’ for my efforts, her stubborn ‘don’t stand in my way’ look.

  She returned after a lunchtime trip into Westcott, her mood buoyant, her voice distinctly triumphant. ‘This is the answer.’ She waved a baby doll’s feeding set at me.

  I remained unconvinced until I saw the baby rodent, curled up fast asleep, his stomach full, bulging out like a white balloon. Full marks to Lucy then. But she hadn’t finished.

  ‘You know that cat down in the ward … the one that’s just had kittens?’

  ‘Er … yes.’

  ‘She’s boarding for a while, isn’t she?’

  ‘You’d need to check with Beryl, but I think she’s in for a couple of weeks. Why?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just something I’ve been reading up on.’ Lucy tapped the open book she’d borrowed from the hospital library as she sat drinking her afternoon mug of tea. ‘Says here how an orphaned squirrel was fostered on to a cat with kittens.’

  ‘Lucy, I don’t somehow think …’

  That look came into her eyes again. Useless for me to say any more.

  With Cyril lined up alongside the three kittens lying next to their mother, I unwisely expressed my doubts again. This wasn’t going to work; the cat would surely snap at the baby squirrel and pull it away. ‘Shhhh …’ was all I got from Lucy as we watched the mother give her kittens a protective lick. She then sniffed the squirrel. Lucy’s hand hovered just inches away, ready to snatch Cyril up in case he was attacked. There was another tentative sniff … then another as the cat’s head lowered towards the wriggling pink body.

  ‘Lucy …’

  ‘Shhhhhh …’

  Suddenly the cat’s tongue darted out; the naked squirrel was lightly touched and then fervently licked as the cat started washing him. Lick … lick … lick. Back and forth went the tongue over the tiny, pink body, transferring scent. Cyril had been accepted.

  Now there was the question of getting Cyril to suckle. Cats’ nipples are large. A squirrel’s mouth small, the jaws quite rigid and with two large-pointed bottom incisors already well developed. This was going to be no easy task. But then Lucy still had that look so …

  He was suckling 20 minutes later.

  Within three days, his eyes opened.

  ‘You’ll really have to watch him now,’ I warned.

  Cyril scrabbled up the side of the cat basket using his large claws to grip. Once on top, he tottered along, rolling from side to side like a drunken sailor, his tail trailing behind him.

  This task became easier as he grew stronger. You’d see him scuttling along the top of the basket, his tail now curled over his back, his gait less rolling now that he’d gained strength in his muscles. Soon he was moving like an adult squirrel – wild, erratic, a sudden stop, a dash in another direction.

  One morning as I was doing my ward round, Lucy let the mother cat out of her kennel to allow her to stretch her legs. Cyril also slipped out and zig-zagged up and down the corridor. I guess something in his jerky movements triggered an instinctive reaction in the cat. For I suddenly saw her tense, crouch, eyes wide open, ears flat against her head, the tip of her tail twitching. There was no doubt as to her intentions – she was about to pounce, and Cyril was going to be her victim. He, oblivious to his impending demise, had stopped to have a good scratch. Then he was off again, darting down the ward. It was all too much for the cat, who suddenly leapt into the air, claws outstretched.

  ‘Lucy!’ I cried.

  She was at the sink, washing bowls, her back to the unfolding drama. At my shout, she spun round, just as the cat sailed past her. With a loud crash, the bowl she was holding dropped from her soapy hands to the floor. It startled the cat sufficiently for her to misjudge her leap. She skidded past Cyril. Then Lucy pounced, throwing herself on the cat and skilfully pinning her down, while the bowl spun down the corridor, ringing against the metal doors of the kennels.

  Cyril skittered through the bars of a kennel housing a bewildered Westie who immediately started yapping, joined in seconds by the howls and yowls of several other startled dogs.

  Into this cacophony walked Crystal. She stood, hands on hips, at the end of the corridor. Her voice sliced through the air. ‘What on earth is going on down here?’

  It was if someone had flicked a switch. The barking died away immediately. The Westie gave two additional, hesitant woofs and then he, too, fell silent with a nervous gulp.

  Crystal clipped down the corridor until level with me. ‘Well, Paul? Perhaps you can explain.’ She stared at me intently.

  Oh, those eyes of hers. Those cornflower-blue eyes … such beautiful eyes … such … well, actually, they now looked rather thunderous. The sort of blue seen in clouds about to hit you between the eyes with a heavy burst of hail.

  ‘Er … well … it was the squirrel,’ I responded in a hoarse whisper, pointing down at Cyril who’d come hopping up to Crystal’s ankles.

  Oh, what lovely ankles … so finely turned … such delicate feet. Pink-lacquered toes peeping from sandals like blushing maids all in a row. More like a string of nuts to judge from the keen interest Cyril was taking in them. And nuts were for eating. Oh no … those razor-sharp teeth of his.

  Crystal looked down and took a genteel step to the side. Phew.

  ‘Oh, yes. This squirrel. Time it was found a home, don’t you think? We don’t want it taking up unnecessary space. Or too much of our staff’s time.’

  So there we had it – Crystal clear.

  Time for Cyril to move on. I had to admit there was no excuse for him staying as he was now eating and drinking of his own accord. But where was he to go?

  I had a sneaking feeling a decision had already been made. That ‘look’ on Lucy’s face said it all. When I hesitantly suggested one or two rescue centres based in West Sussex or Westcott’s Wildlife Park, the ‘look’ intensified.

  ‘But we’re stuffed to overflowing,’ I said as the words ‘Willow Wren’ were finally voiced by Lucy. ‘Where could we put him?’

  ‘He could go in with the two pheasants and the one-legged crow.’

  ‘The mesh isn’t rodent-proof.’

  ‘You could soon fix that.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You.’ She gave me her Lucy Look.

  I fixed the mesh the next day and Cyril moved in the day after. He was greeted with a few squawks from the pheasants; and the crow gave him a funny, Beryl-like stare. But ruffled feathers were soon smoothed and the quartet settled down to a summer together.

  Cyril became quite addicted to the pelleted chicken feed on offer. And he certainly became very tame. ‘Sweet, isn’t he?’ said Lucy, standing in the aviary with Cyril on her shoulder.

  In his paws, he was turning over his favourite titbit – a custard cream – busily gnawing away at it, his cheeks rapidly filling with biscuit. And he was soon able to fend for himself. The skill w
ith which he demonstrated his ability to construct a drey was proof of that. Another of Lucy’s looks made sure I knocked up a nest box for him. She provided the straw.

  Now Cyril was in his element, racing down to yank up a pile of stems in his mouth, scuttling back up to the box where he’d sit chewing them up, weaving them into a nest. He’d bury himself in it, just his head poking out of the matted straw, his teeth clacking like a sewing machine should you go too near.

  ‘So, are you going to let him go?’ asked Beryl.

  ‘You’re not going to keep him, surely?’ asked Mandy.

  Even Eric tossed in a question in passing, although Crystal’s pink, cupid-bow lips remained sealed.

  Here was a dilemma: Cyril was self-sufficient and I felt sure he’d like a mate. Yet grey squirrels are very destructive and it hardly seemed fair to release him in nearby woods where he could do enormous damage to young trees and possibly be shot in the process. It was Cyril himself who provided the answer.

  Lucy came running indoors to where I was stretched out on the sofa trying to tackle the crossword in the paper.

  With a gulp, she said, ‘It’s Cyril. Can’t find him anywhere. He must have escaped. Come on. We must go and look for him.’

  Well, yes. I suppose we should, I thought. On the other hand … perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that he’d made off. He’d saved us the problem of deciding what to do with him.

  Lucy interrupted my musings. ‘You just going to laze there all day or what?’ She dashed through to the kitchen saying she was getting some custard creams.

  There followed an excruciating half hour which saw the two of us trailing round the perimeter of Ashton’s recreation ground, gazing up into the branches of the sycamores, poking through overgrown clumps of leylandii calling out ‘Cyril’ while our outstretched hands each held a custard cream.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ I exclaimed to Lucy as yet another passer-by, having asked what we were looking for, gave us a look of pity as we told him ‘Cyril the squirrel’, and walked on no doubt thinking we’d been reading too much Beatrix Potter. And when a youth in knee-holed jeans rode by on his bike with a snigger and I overhead him on the corner telling his mates of us two nutters on the rec, I decided enough was enough and called a halt to the search.

  Lucy did one final ‘Coo-eee’ in the direction of the ash tree that fronted the rectory and waved a custard cream at Reverend James when he hoved into view. He gave a hesitant wave back.

  A week later, I was taking Nelson for a totter across the rec, his arthritic limbs only capable of carrying him once round the perimeter. One of Ashton’s senior citizens who’d also been out for a totter was now sitting on the one bench that had yet to be vandalised. Despite it only being early October and the weather still balmy, she was wrapped in a camel-coloured coat several sizes too big for her which made her look like a sack of potatoes. To her side was a white, plastic bag sporting the name of a well-known supermarket. Behind her, running up and down the back of the bench were three squirrels – all Cyril look-alikes. As I stopped to watch, she extracted an endless stream of food from the bag – lumps of cheese, broken wafers, biscuits. The squirrels scuttled back and forth reaching down to snatch each item offered without the slightest trace of fear.

  ‘Such pretty creatures, aren’t they?’ she said, peering up at me from the depths of her sack.

  I nodded, yanking Nelson back as he pulled forward in an attempt to hoover up the crumbs.

  ‘And so tame,’ she added. ‘Especially this dear little chap …’ She glanced down at the squirrel who’d jumped on to her arm and was now clasping the biscuit she’d given him.

  Though he looked like the other two – bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, tubby little tummy, all the attributes of a healthy squirrel – there was something about him which made me think he could be Cyril. For a moment, I couldn’t decide what that something was. Then it came to me. It was the way he was devouring the biscuit held in his paws. How those incisors were crunching through it. The way it was rapidly disappearing into his mouth. No other squirrel could surely enjoy a biscuit with such relish as he did.

  Yes, it had to be Cyril.

  And what clinched it?

  Why, the biscuit being eaten – a custard cream, of course.

  AND THIS LITTLE PIGGY HAD NONE

  I was a mite suspicious when, one late July morning, just before the start of the day’s appointments, I saw Eric hovering at the end of the corridor outside my consulting room.

  ‘Ah, Paul. Just the man,’ he cried, with a flourish of his arms. The joviality in his tone of voice did nothing to allay my doubts. Eric was an amiable enough fellow but usually only became civil around coffee break time. This was far too early for him. Something was up.

  ‘Before you start, I’d like a word,’ he went on, pointing a finger through the door. ‘Just the two of us.’ He disappeared into the room. By the time I’d got there, several scenarios had galloped through my brain. I remembered the tête-à-tête I’d had with Crystal just before they’d both bombed off to Venice leaving me with the Richardsons’ horse. Was I about to be forewarned about some particular client of Eric’s? The Stockwells, for instance? According to Beryl, they would have no one but him. There again, perhaps I’d upset someone … put my foot in it. No. Surely not. Eric seemed more adept at doing that than me. Besides, it would be Crystal wagging the admonishing finger, not Eric. Puzzled, I entered the room.

  ‘Close the door,’ said Eric, ‘this won’t take a moment.’ He was standing by the examination table, shirt ballooning over his belt which had slipped down over his paunch so that his trousers had dropped, the crotch now nearly at knee level. In my mind, I’d often compared Eric to a ball, the way he bounced around the place, throwing himself into his work with boundless energy. But today, with the sagging clothes, he looked more reminiscent of a half-deflated one discarded on the beach, the image of which a blue, red and yellow-striped tie hanging loosely round his neck did nothing to dispel.

  He cleared his throat while reaching across to the instrument trolley where he picked up a thermometer and rolled it between his fingers. ‘I’m not quite sure how to put this,’ he went on.

  I gave a surreptitious glance at my watch. There were only minutes to go before surgery started and already I could hear a dog yapping in reception. Soon it would be Beryl snapping at me, wondering where I’d got to. Hurry up, Eric. Say what you have to say.

  He dropped the thermometer on the trolley and turned back to me. ‘I was playing golf yesterday afternoon with Alex Ryman. He’s one of our clients.’

  Yes … yes … and? There was a cat now miaowing in the waiting room.

  ‘We sort of had a set-to at the fourth green … about one of his putts. I won’t go into the details.’

  Better not, Eric, otherwise the waiting room will be overflowing.

  ‘Well, anyway, I don’t somehow think I’d be welcome if a vet’s needed over at his smallholding in the next few days.’

  ‘Is that likely?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  Here we go. What’s about to foal, whelp, litter or calf down, I wonder?

  ‘It’s the Rymans’ pig.’

  ‘Pig?’

  ‘Their Saddleback. It’s due to farrow soon. Not that there should be any problem. But you never know.’

  ‘Er … couldn’t Crystal …?’ I faltered.

  The look of horror that flashed up on Eric’s face said it all. Pigs, it seemed, weren’t her cup of tea. Something she preferred to leave to him. Or, as of now, to me – until such time Alex Ryman and Eric were back on par – golf buddies once more. Hmmm.

  ‘How soon’s “soon”?’ I asked.

  ‘Alex reckons in the next 48 hours or so. But he might be wrong.’ Eric gave an embarrassed little harrumph. ‘So you don’t mind covering this one for me?’

  Seems I had no choice, especially when he went on to tell me he’d already forewarned Beryl. ‘She’s keeping it under wraps. I’d ra
ther Crystal didn’t find out. Could be a bit awkward. You know how it is.’

  Indeed I did – so not only was I liable to see this pig of Eric’s, I was also having to save his bacon. Oh well, such was an assistant’s life.

  Just after lunch the following day, I breezed into reception to be greeted by a loud ‘Pssst’ from Beryl and a beckoning from an uncompromising vermilion nail.

  ‘Here,’ she whispered, hunched furtively behind the computer screen.

  I stepped across to the reception desk as her glass eye swivelled up to the ceiling while her good one glanced anxiously round the empty room. ‘It’s on,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  She hissed, ‘You know.’ She held a hand up to the right side of her mouth. The words came out muffled. ‘Operation porker.’

  ‘You mean …’

  ‘Shhhh … yes. I’ve booked you in a visit. 2.30pm.’

  ‘So how’s the afternoon shaping up?’ It was Crystal.

  Both Beryl and I started and sprang apart as she approached the desk.

  ‘Fine … fine …’ stuttered Beryl, her fingers skimming over the keyboard, the Rymans’ case history sliding quickly off the screen. ‘You’ve got Mrs Frobisher – the Lord Mayor’s wife – at three. Her two Swedish Elkhounds are due for their boosters.’

  And I’ve got a pig due for farrowing, I thought glumly.

  Before I left for the Rymans, Beryl sneaked down to the office and slipped a folded scrap of paper into my hand. ‘Directions of how to get there,’ she whispered before tiptoeing out. She was clearly enjoying this little bit of subterfuge and I wondered whether she expected me to memorise the directions and then swallow the ball of paper.

  As it turned out, I was thankful for those directions. The Rymans’ smallholding was in the next village along from Ashton, one called Chawcombe. It wasn’t so much a village as a straggle of houses along a busy road that ran parallel to the north side of the Downs and from which numerous lanes ran off into the countryside. I’d have run off several had it not been for Beryl’s red-inked map with Natt’s Lane clearly marked and an asterisk next to Downside Cottage – a bit of a misnomer, as I discovered, since the cottage was several miles away from the Downs and wasn’t a cottage but a bungalow. One from the 1950s, built of plain, red brick with concrete roof tiles to which a 1970s, flat-roofed loft extension had been added, hung-tiled in a mismatch of dark brown. As I drove on to the tarmac drive and rounded the corner of the bungalow, I half expected to see a conservatory. And yes, there it was – a white UPVC bubble of glass stuck to the back like a blob of used chewing gum; and from it strode a woman, followed closely by a boy of about eight and a girl who looked a year or so younger.