Pets in a Pickle

by Malcolm D Welshman

  ‘Jill Ryman,’ she said, introducing herself with the shake of a hand. She was tall, in her mid-thirties, thin as fuse wire, breasts flat as paper, wearing grubby overalls and wellington boots. ‘And this is Emily and Joshua. Say hello to Mr …?’

  ‘Paul Mitchell.’

  Emily looked up at me through metal-rimmed glasses and smiled shyly, exposing two missing front teeth, but it was Joshua who spoke. ‘Miss Piggy’s having babies.’ He studied me through a mop of tousled brown hair, his dark eyes unflinching.

  ‘Yes, well … so I understand,’ I said, somewhat unnerved by the intensity of the lad’s expression. I lifted out my black bag. ‘Let’s hope she doesn’t need too much help.’

  Emily suddenly found her voice. ‘Is that for the babies?’ she lisped, pointing.

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose it is,’ I replied with a chuckle, conjuring up a picture of a bag stuffed full of piglets.

  She giggled. Joshua remained silent, his lips curled down – clearly it was no laughing matter for this young man.

  ‘Now, Emily, don’t let’s distract the doctor too much,’ said Jill and proceeded to do just that as the four of us crossed to a large, wooden-slatted barn fronting a concrete yard, picking our way through a flock of bantams, hens and ducks. Throughout the short walk I was given a potted history of Miss Piggy, and how the Saddleback had arrived as a thin, weedy piglet, the runt of the litter, the unlucky thirteenth. It had been Alex’s intention to fatten her up for the table but somehow that time never arrived. And you wouldn’t believe it, but he often took her for walks on a lead. Could I imagine it? A pig on a lead? People were amazed. And she was so well behaved; trotted to heel just like a dog. Much better than their dog, in fact – a Jack Russell: she was a bit of a handful. Nipped ankles.

  Oh no, I thought … not another Chico.

  ‘No, don’t worry,’ Jill went on seeing me look round anxiously. ‘I’ve shut Trisha in the house for now.’

  As we reached the barn door, Emily pulled at Jill’s sleeve. ‘Can we watch?’

  Jill looked at me, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Don’t see why not,’ I said. So we all trooped in.

  Miss Piggy was in a makeshift farrowing crate – a DIY job of wooden pallets tied together.

  ‘I’m definitely not happy about her,’ stated Jill, leaning over the top while Joshua and Emily peered through the gaps.

  ‘She doesn’t go “Oink” any more,’ said Joshua, solemnly.

  ‘No,’ agreed Jill. ‘She’s gone very quiet. It’s not at all like her.’

  ‘Oink, oink,’ murmured Emily, pushing her arm through and poking Miss Piggy’s belly.

  ‘Now then, Emily, don’t,’ said Jill, pulling her away. ‘Miss Piggy’s not feeling well. You mustn’t upset her.’

  Tears welled up in the little girl’s eyes. ‘I’m only trying to make her feel better,’ she sobbed.

  ‘That’s for the doctor to do.’

  Yes, indeed, if possible, I thought, scrambling over the pallet wall and jumping down next to the pig, flat out in a bed of straw. When I say ‘flat’, she was lying there motionless but far from flat. Indeed, she was enormous; her pink, blotchy abdomen was hugely swollen … bloated, like an over-inflated hot-air balloon about to burst.

  ‘Dad reckons she should have had them by now,’ declared Joshua.

  ‘By the way, I must apologise that Alex’s not here,’ said Jill. ‘He thought Eric was coming over and decided it would be best if he made himself scarce. Something to do with their golf match last Wednesday?’

  Emily interrupted, her words whistling through her teeth. ‘He’s gone to Tethsco’s.’

  ‘Dad hates shopping,’ said Joshua, still peering down at Miss Piggy. ‘But he said we were out of bacon.’

  ‘Yes … well …’ I said. There were going to be plenty of rashers here if I didn’t do something to help this pig.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jill, shushing the children. ‘She’s been straining all morning,’ she went on. ‘But we were hesitant about calling Eric … er … you … out in case we were worrying unduly.’

  Conscious of three sets of eyes on me, I ran my hands over the sow’s extended abdomen, but she didn’t stir. Not a twitch, only the rasping, bellow-like action of her thorax. I eased my hand over the coarse, ginger hair of her flank and cautiously began to feel each teat. I knew enough of pigs to know they could turn on you without warning and I didn’t fancy being flattened by several hundredweight of pork. Quietly, tentatively, I moved my hand along her mammaries, ready to spring out of the way should I need to.

  ‘She’s got lots of titties,’ Emily suddenly said with a giggle.

  I rolled the hot, dry skin of one between my fingers and squeezed it. A tiny drop of yellow fluid appeared at the tip – a sign that she was definitely due to farrow.

  ‘Things don’t look too good,’ I muttered more to myself than to my audience. But Joshua was quick to pick up on it.

  ‘She’s not going to die is she?’ he asked, the stern expression on his face beginning to crack as his eyes glistened and his lips trembled.

  Jill reached out and touched his arm. ‘Mr Mitchell’s going to do his best, dear.’

  Joshua pulled his arm away.

  I levered myself round to the sow’s rear end, lifted the limp, straight tail and, with a rolling action, eased a thermometer though her anal sphincter. There was not a murmur from her. But there was certainly one from Emily.

  ‘What’s he doing now?’ she queried, her eyes wide, bulging like organ stops through her glasses.

  ‘Taking her temperature,’ explained Jill.

  ‘You didn’t put it up there when I was poorly.’

  ‘But you’re not a pig, stupid,’ said Joshua, recovering his composure.

  ‘That’s yuck,’ said Emily with a loud tut as she watched me pull the thermometer out and wipe it on some straw.

  I stood up and turned to Jill. ‘Thought as much,’ I said grimly. ‘It’s 40°C – way above normal. Best if I take a look inside.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ gasped Emily. ‘Trisha’s indoors … she’ll bite you.’

  ‘He means take a look inside Miss Piggy’, explained Jill, giving Emily a hug.

  ‘Gross,’ muttered Joshua but kept his eyes fixed intently on me as I donned a plastic glove, smeared it with grease and gently began an internal examination of the sow to the accompaniment of further exclamations of ‘gross’ and ‘yuck’ from both children as my arm slid in deeper. She seemed relaxed and open enough to produce a piglet even though I couldn’t feel one through the warm, slippery folds of her cervix. But to judge from her massive size there was a platoonful inside just waiting for the order to pop out.

  Once finished, I decided to give Miss Piggy a shot of Oxytocin. ‘It will help to make the womb contract,’ I explained to Jill.

  ‘Bit like an induced labour then,’ she said.

  Emily was listening to every word. She pulled at Jill’s sleeve. ‘Mummy. What’s a womb?’

  Jill hesitated a second, looking at me with ‘Help’ written on her face. ‘Er … well … it’s where …’ she faltered.

  ‘It’s where the babies lie before they come out,’ I said on the spur of the moment, desperate to say something.

  ‘Like my bed womb then,’ lisped Emily, apparently satisfied.

  And I’ve got to get them out of bed soon, I thought to myself, as I plunged the injection into Miss Piggy’s thigh, ready to spring back over the pallets should she lurch to her feet. But no. She gave only the merest of grunts, the merest twitch of her leg.

  ‘Right,’ I declared with more confidence in my voice than I felt. ‘Let’s give that a few hours to work.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘I’ve got evening surgery coming up. But I’m on duty afterwards, so I’ll pop out later this evening.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure,’ said Jill. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Mummy … Mummy …’ chorused Joshua and Emily. ‘Can we stay up to watch?’ They saw her shake her
head.

  ‘Oh please …’ said Joshua.

  ‘Pleathe …’ echoed Emily.

  ‘It could be way past your bedtimes.’

  And it was. Thankfully, there was no sign of the children when I returned that evening. The dusk of midsummer had begun to settle over the Downs, a rim of gold in the west, the outlines of the bungalow and barn blurred in an amber glow. There was a car in the drive which I guessed was Alex’s. Good … an extra pair of hands would be helpful. Not so helpful was the yapping bundle of ghostly white which shot across the darkening yard, heading straight for my feet.

  A head poked out of the barn door. ‘Trisha. Come here, you stupid mutt,’ commanded a gruff voice. To no avail. The Jack Russell continued to dance and prance round my heels like a banshee on booze, only kept at bay by judicious swinging of my black bag. ‘Sorry about Trisha,’ apologised Alex, introducing himself. ‘She’s a great ratter but when it comes to people she’s a pain in the backside.’

  If she could jump that high it would be another area to guard, I thought, as I squeezed mine through the barn door, keeping the snapping terrier out. As a golfing buddy of Eric’s, I’d already formed a mental image of Alex – a similar rotund figure – both of them bouncing down the freeway together. Not a bit of it – he was a small, wiry chap with something of the gypsy about him. Maybe it was the dark complexion and equally dark eyes and eyebrows topped by a tangle of coal-black hair – but more likely the large gold ring looped in his left earlobe. Some sort of statement, no doubt, but somehow it didn’t go with a 1950s bungalow, UPVC conservatory and a round of golf with Eric. But who was I to say? Me with my Calvin Klein boxers, a gold stud in each ear and an aviary full of budgerigars in my back garden.

  Jill was wiping strands of sticky afterbirth from a highly vocal piglet. ‘Her first,’ she said, proudly holding up the shiny, pink, wriggling baby.

  ‘Whoops … looks like her second’s arriving,’ exclaimed Alex. Miss Piggy gave a grunt, her balloon flanks contracting, her hind legs stretching out; then out plopped a piglet.

  ‘And here comes her third,’ I remarked as another shot out.

  The sow showed no interest in her offspring despite their high-pitched clamour – a cacophony of squeals loud enough to engender a rush of maternal instinct in the most boorish of mothers. Not so in Miss Piggy. She just lay there, limp, exhausted, head arched back in the straw, emitting the occasional feeble grunt.

  ‘I’ll recheck her temperature,’ I said as another piglet emerged to lie spread-eagled with its litter mates.

  Alex switched on an overhead lamp and angled it round to shine down on Miss Piggy’s rear. As he did so another porker appeared – her fifth. The sixth arrived seconds later.

  ‘Must be the light attracting them,’ joked Alex. But the smile belied the tension in his face.

  The seventh was born as I twisted the thermometer round to read it – 39°C. Only a little less than earlier and still way above what it should be. No wonder she looked so ill.

  ‘I reckon she’s got septicaemia,’ I said, raising my voice above the frenzy of squeaks. ‘That’s why there’s no milk.’ As I spoke, another three piglets joined the hungry chorus line. A protesting litter of ten were now pulling furiously on Miss Piggy’s unyielding teats.

  ‘Whatever are we going to do with this lot?’ said a dismayed Jill as Miss Piggy gave another grunt and produced her eleventh and twelfth.

  ‘Feed them, that’s what,’ said Alex pushing back a lock of hair. ‘I’m sure we can do it.’

  ‘You’ll certainly have your work cut out,’ I warned and instantly regretted what I said. It sounded so obvious, so … what was the word … boorish? And to judge from the dark look flashed at me by Alex, he thought so, too.

  ‘At least with the weekend ahead we can have a good crack at it,’ he said. ‘And we can rope in Emily and Joshua to help. They’ll love to.’

  Jill turned to me. ‘We’ve some milk powder in our emergency stores. Will that be OK to use?’

  ‘Fine. Yes.’ I replied. ‘But add some extra glucose if you’ve got any … at least for the first 24 hours.’

  ‘Assuming we can get it down them … how often should they be fed?’

  ‘Ideally every two hours.’

  Jill didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘We’ve a baby’s bottle. Will that do?’

  I nodded. ‘And I’ve got a fostering kit in the car that you can borrow.’ I didn’t envy the Rymans feeding 12 young piglets but they seemed a determined couple and keen to have a go.

  Before I left, I gave Miss Piggy a massive intramuscular injection of long-acting antibiotic in the hope that it would check the infection and bring the temperature down. Even with such a thick, viscous suspension being pumped into her leg, she showed no reaction. Not one flinch.

  I suggested calling in again the following Wednesday, unless any problems cropped up before then.

  ‘Good planning,’ whispered Beryl on the Monday, giving me a conspiratorial wink with her glass eye. ‘That’s Crystal’s morning off. She won’t know anything about it.’ I wondered whether she was going to enter the visit on the computer in some sort of cryptic code but decided to leave that to her. As for Eric, he pulled me into the dispensary to ask how things had gone.

  ‘Good … good,’ he said in a low voice when I told him that Miss Piggy had farrowed. He poked his head out of the door as I mentioned the pig’s fever, nervously looking up and down the corridor. What was he looking for? A spy in the camp? Tell-tale Lucy or Mandy the mole perhaps?

  ‘I appreciate you keeping all of this under wraps,’ he said, stepping back in. ‘Makes it so much easier for me.’

  On the Wednesday morning, I found I’d been given a visit to see a Mr Myarn – an anagram of ‘Ryman’ as Beryl was to explain later – clever, eh?

  ‘Yes, Myarn … you know …’ said Beryl giving me a warning look as Mandy marched through reception.

  And when my morning appointments had finished, she dashed down to my consulting room to say the coast was clear should I want to make a run for it now. What was it with this woman? Had she been watching too many reruns of The Great Escape? Nevertheless, I dashed out to the car resisting the urge to duck in case a hail of bullets erupted from the hospital.

  ‘So how are things?’ I asked, staring down at Miss Piggy, her family clustered round her, while the Ryman family clustered round me. ‘We’ve managed to feed the piglets,’ said Alex. ‘They’re fine.’

  ‘That’s my one,’ said Emily pointing to the fattest and reddest. ‘She’s called Pinky.’

  ‘Mine’s the one kicking his legs,’ said Joshua.

  That must be Perky, I thought.

  ‘We’re still worried about Miss Piggy,’ said Jill. ‘As you can see, she hasn’t really moved. No interest in food. We’ve tried all sorts of things to tempt her.’

  I could see the trough alongside, full of untouched pellets. And on top, a row of Smarties and a pile of crisps. Bacon flavoured? I wondered. Now, now, that was naughty. This was serious.

  ‘Are you going to stick that thing up her bottom again?’ asked Emily.

  There were more giggles and groans of disgust as I did so. But the temperature had dropped back to normal. I could see no reason why Miss Piggy shouldn’t be on her feet, and I told the Rymans this.

  ‘She’s just a lazy cow then,’ said Alex.

  ‘She’s a pig, not a cow, Daddy,’ said Emily crossly.

  I picked up Pinky. ‘You’ve been looking after her very well, Emily,’ I said, holding up the fat, little piglet. It squealed and wriggled in my hand like an animated sausage – a pork sausage, of course.

  Miss Piggy jerked her head up, her piggy, grey eyes stared at me. All of a sudden, there was a whirlwind of straw, bedding flying everywhere, a scrabbling of trotters, shrieks and squeals, a dropped Pinky … and me frantically vaulting the pallets as Miss Piggy reared to her feet and lunged at my fast disappearing legs.

  As I crumpled in a heap at their feet, the Rymans leapt
up and down with glee, Alex hugging Jill, a squealing Emily wheeling round in circles, arms outstretched – even serious Joshua was jigging, a broad grin etched on his face. The cause of such merriment was Miss Piggy who, as I got to my feet, remained standing on hers; with snout swinging from side to side, she swept away the straw, tracking down her scattered offspring, and drew them to her with a series of deep grunts. When her piglets were gathered round her, she gave another maternal ‘Oink’, tossed aside the Smarties and crisps and buried her snout in the trough of pig nuts.

  When the Rymans finally stopped their tribal dance and calmed down, it was Jill who spoke. ‘Wonderful … absolutely wonderful. We can’t thank you enough.’ Her voice trailed off as it seemed, unusual for her, she became lost for words.

  Then Emily started skipping around singing, softly at first and then louder: ‘Our Miss Piggy goes “Oink, oink, oink … oink, oink, oink … oink, oink, oink …”’

  Jill joined in, ‘Our Miss Piggy goes …’

  ‘“Oink, oink, oink …”’ sang Alex.

  ‘“Oink, oink, oink …”’ I think I heard Joshua mutter, shoulders hunched, hands stuffed in his pockets. Certainly his lips were moving.

  Miss – or rather Mrs as the Rymans now decided to call her – Piggy continued to munch without so much as an ‘oink’ of her own – but all day long.

  When I returned to Prospect House, I half-expected Beryl to be in full Nazi uniform, sporting a pencil moustache. Of course, she was just in her standard uniform of black trousers and long-sleeved black top; though there seemed to be a dark shadow on her upper lip – but that could just have been a trick of the light.