Pets in a Pickle

by Malcolm D Welshman

  ‘My dear, he doesn’t know that,’ she said as I gingerly began palpating each of Oscar’s toes. He fidgeted and squirmed but didn’t cry out. I eased myself round the actress and levered out his hind legs from behind her elbow. The dog whimpered as I felt his right back paw.

  ‘Oh, my sweetheart. Is he hurting you?’ exclaimed Miss Cavendish with a toss of her turbaned head.

  But at least I had located the problem. A dew claw, grossly overgrown, had curled round on itself to dig into the pad. No wonder Oscar was lame; it must have been like walking on a needle. There followed a tussle between nail clippers, Maltese terrier, fingers, folds of pashmina and loose incisors as I delved into the folds of the shawl to extract paws and, one by one, cut nails and prise out the worst of fur balls between toes. It was a masterful performance, itself worthy of an Oscar nomination if not the statuette itself.

  Nail clippings shot in all directions. Ping – one ricocheted off a steel kidney dish. Ping – another hit a slat of the Venetian blinds. A third sprung away from the clippers and spiralled up to land ping-less in the curl of hair over Francesca Cavendish’s forehead where it hung like some New Age adornment – she was oblivious to its presence.

  The struggle to hang on to Oscar as he slithered and slipped out of grasp in the folds of her pashmina took their toll on the actress. By the time I’d finished, her porcelain complexion was as white and shiny as a well-scrubbed washbasin.

  ‘Goodness,’ she spluttered between gulps of air. ‘I never used to have that sort of struggle with Mr Scott-Thomas.’

  I refused to dwell on the image conjured up in my mind – her and him thrashing about on the consulting table. No, definitely not. It didn’t bear contemplating. I wheeled her out as quickly as I could, expressing my wish that all would now be well and that the ‘rest’ of her stay in Westcott would be enjoyable. I didn’t suggest, as I normally did with other clients, that she should return if further problems were encountered. This one-act play with her had been quite enough. No encores were required, thank you very much.

  To my surprise, even Beryl, not usually one to pass judgement on clients, seemed to be on my side when she said, ‘Remind me not to buy her brand of cat food.’

  It must have been about ten days later when I received the call. It was one of those rare weekends where Lucy and I hadn’t managed to synchronise our time off together. I was on duty, she was off; the phone at Prospect House was manned by Mandy.

  ‘Sorry, Paul,’ she said, ‘but I’ve had that pussy-ad woman on the phone demanding that her Oscar be seen.’

  ‘Did she say what the problem was?’

  ‘’Fraid not.’

  I sighed. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better see her then. Ask her to come in.’

  ‘She won’t.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’s insisting on a house call.’

  ‘Some hope. Especially on a weekend.’

  ‘Maybe you could have a word?’

  Minutes later, I was listening to Francesca Cavendish’s dramatic drawl down the line. ‘You really must come out, darling. Oscar’s scratching himself to death.’

  ‘I’ll certainly see him for you, but you’ll need to bring him up to the hospital.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath and the phone went dead.

  I shrugged and put it down. ‘Just that actress from the cat ads,’ I said when asked by Lucy who it was. ‘Wants a house call.’

  She agreed with me that the woman was unlikely to find any vet in the area prepared to make an out-of-hours visit to a scratching dog.

  ‘But no doubt she’ll ring round to try and find someone,’ I said.

  When the phone rang again half-an-hour later, it was Mandy to tell me that Francesca Cavendish was very sorry that we’d been cut off and what time did I say I could see Oscar?

  She arrived at Prospect House before me and was sitting in the waiting room with Oscar clutched to her bosom. There was no sign of her ‘chauffeur’ outside. She leapt to her feet as I walked in.

  She gushed, ‘So good of you to see me out of hours.’

  I forced a smile. ‘No problem.’

  ‘It’s why I think so highly of Mr Scott-Thomas. However late at night it might be, he’s always there for me.’

  My smile faded.

  ‘It’s just that I can’t stand it any longer … he’s been going at it all night long. I’m quite exhausted.’

  I did a double-take. Had I missed something here? Some all-night hanky-panky with her Mr Scott-Thomas?

  She continued, ‘Scratch, scratch, scratch … Oscar simply won’t stop. I just hope you can do something about it.’

  Right. Yes. ‘It must be very irritating,’ I said, only aware of the pun I’d made once it had slipped out. Thank goodness Miss Cavendish didn’t notice. She was far more concerned at pointing out the oozing matt of fur over Oscar’s right shoulder.

  “Just what might that be?’ she asked.

  ‘Eczema,’ I replied.

  ‘ECZEMA?’ she echoed in a tone worthy of Lady Bracknell’s ‘A handbag?’ Had she been practising the part, I wondered.

  My turn to take centre stage. I explained it was wet eczema brought on by something which had irritated the skin in that region. The dog had started nibbling the spot, making it more sore, so that it, in turn, made him lick more, making it even more sore so that he …

  ‘Yes, yes … I get the picture,’ butted in Miss Cavendish, waving faintly at me to stop. ‘So what do you propose doing about it?’

  I showed her by clipping away the wet hair and smoothing in some anti-inflammatory cream. As I did so, a small, dark brown insect hopped across the area.

  ‘Ha ha!’ I trumpeted. ‘There’s our culprit … flea.’

  ‘A FLEA?’ Oh dear. Another blast of Bracknell. At this rate, she’d be word-perfect before the end of the consultation.

  ‘How dare you suggest Oscar’s got fleas.’ The tone remained very Bracknell. Very Wilde. ‘The very thought of it fills me with … with …’ Francesca Cavendish pounded her chest obviously searching for the appropriate dramatic expression of her disgust. Loathing? Horror? Abhorrence? Repugnance? The list was endless. But it seemed she was so choked with whatever she was filled with that the words failed to form; she just stood there, her lower lip doing its customary ventriloquist-doll-like jerking up and down, while her hand continued to beat her breast.

  She finally managed to compose herself. ‘Show me …’ she demanded, ‘… the evidence. I want to see it with my own eyes.’

  I parted some of the fine white hairs over Oscar’s back, down by his rump. With his pink skin, it was easy to spot the black flecks I’d been searching for. I picked out several and placed them carefully on the table.

  Miss Cavendish leaned over and peered down at them. ‘If those are fleas why aren’t they moving?’ she said.

  ‘They’re not fleas,’ I said, dampening some cotton wool and squeezing a few drops of water on to the flecks. Streaks of red began to spiral out. ‘There’s your proof,’ I said. ‘Flea dirts.’

  Francesca Cavendish reeled back, an entire thesaurus of disgust and loathing on her face. ‘That’s absolutely hideous,’ she said.

  Hideous? Yet another adjective. And yes, it certainly highlighted her feelings. As for her dog’s feelings – his itchy, scratchy feelings – a couple of anti-inflammatory injections would ease those. With the first jab given, Miss Cavendish snatched the anti-flea preparation I gave her and promised to return within the week for Oscar’s second injection.

  ‘She’ll have to be told,’ said Lucy.

  ‘I know, I know.’ But I was dreading it. How on earth could I tactfully tell the woman the fleas weren’t living on Oscar – that they only hopped on to feed?

  ‘You’ll just have to be direct,’ said Lucy. ‘Take the lead.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ I moaned. ‘But I’m no Clarke Gable. She’ll be gone with the wind if I tell her that her apartment’s infested with fleas.’

 
But it was more like Some Like It Hot when I told Francesca Cavendish. She went puce. She boomed ‘You’re telling me my apartment’s contaminated?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking …’

  ‘Out with it, boy. Yes or no.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath. A theatrical pause. ‘I blame the previous tenants,’ she suddenly said. ‘They must have had a dog. That’s how the place got infested. And to think my poor little innocent walked straight into it. Seems most likely, don’t you agree, sweetie?’

  Of course I was going to agree. Anything to persuade her to have the apartment treated. If she thought she wasn’t the guilty party, it made it all so much easier. Indeed, she was more than happy to follow my instructions. Yes, she’d thoroughly vacuum the carpets. She did that routinely anyway.

  ‘Of course,’ I murmured.

  And yes, there was no problem in washing Oscar’s bedding. Well, her bedding, actually, her duvet and pillows, as he slept with her. But then that was always done once a week.

  ‘Of course.’

  And spraying the entire flat with the long-acting flea spray would be no problem.

  ‘Of course not.’

  It was all very well scripted.

  As for the pashmina. She’d grown tired of it anyway. It could go to the charity shop. But she’d send it to the dry cleaner’s first?

  Yes, of course.

  ‘Seems you’ve done her proud,’ commented Eric after overhearing Francesca Cavendish extol my virtues to a taciturn Beryl while paying the bill.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to put it quite like that, Eric,’ I said, as visions of Mr Scott-Thomas ‘doing her proud’ reared in my head.

  ‘Well, some people get very funny when they’re told they’ve a flea problem. Take it as a personal affront, as if they’re somehow dirty themselves. I’d imagine she’d be just the sort of woman to get stroppy.’

  ‘Well, she blamed it on the previous tenants at Wellington Court. So it made it all much easier.’

  Eric slid a hand over his pate. ‘Wellington Court, you say. Seem to remember I had a client there until recently. Can’t recall what number it was though.

  ‘Twenty-eight,’ said Beryl, who had been typing at the computer screen while eavesdropping. ‘I’ve got it up on the screen here. Mr and Mrs Green, 28 Wellington Court. Our Miss Puss-Ad is “resting” there at present.’

  ‘They had a dog,’ I said. ‘At least Miss Puss … er … Francesca Cavendish thinks they did.’

  Eric shook his head. ‘Well, she’s wrong. All the Greens had was a budgie. I used to clip its beak.’

  He saw the look I gave him. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t let on. But it may cost you a pint or two.’

  ‘Done,’ I declared without a moment’s hesitation. No way did I want Francesca Cavendish coming back to give me a flea in my ear. Alive or dead.

  A FÊTE WORSE THAN DEATH

  Mandy, in one of her more affable moods, had warned me not to. Eric said they were a minefield. And Beryl commented it wasn’t the wisest thing to consider doing. But it was Crystal who was most adamant about the dangers of being a judge at a pet show. And that surprised me, as I would have thought the publicity generated for the practice would have been a good thing.

  ‘Not so, Paul,’ said Crystal as we sat discussing the possibility one lunchtime early in August. ‘Some years back, I was persuaded to judge the dog classes at Westcott’s August Bank Holiday Show. It was a real nightmare, believe you me.’

  I tried to visualise the cool, calm, collected woman sitting in front of me, not a hair out of place, her neat, manicured fingers daintily folded round her bone china mug of herbal tea as being in a nightmare situation. Crystal ruffled? Never.

  She continued, ‘The thing was, I never heard the last of it from those clients who didn’t win rosettes. Not that they said anything, of course. It’s just that, for months afterwards, undercurrents of resentment could be felt whenever they came into surgery. I’ve no wish to jeopardise the special relationship I have with my clients. So I now leave judging of shows to the practice down the road.’

  So there; I had been warned. No excuse. But then I hadn’t reckoned on the persuasive powers of a child to disarm me.

  I’m not sure who had given my phone number. I suspected it could have been Reverend James from our local church in Ashton passing it on to the church in the neighbouring village. Some sort of clerical networking – I’ll ring your bells if you ring mine.

  The voice down the line was high-pitched, with a slightly nervous tremor. A choirboy perhaps – ready to sing my praises? No. It sounded more like a girl, and one anxious to seek salvation. Straight away, I was asked if I could judge the pet show at their church fête. ‘It’s just that we hadn’t realised our usual vet would be away on holiday next weekend.’

  Next weekend? It was Thursday now. It was hardly giving me much notice. But why should that concern me? I wasn’t going to do it. The warnings from Beryl, Eric and Crystal rang in my head louder than …

  ‘Which church is it?’ I found myself saying.

  ‘St Augustine’s in Chawcombe.’ The voice sounded a little more hopeful.

  Now why had I asked? I’d just told myself I wouldn’t do it, so what did it matter which church it was?

  ‘You should try one of the other vets in the area.’

  There was a pause and some muffled conferring. ‘We already have,’ said the girl coming back on the line. ‘Six in fact.’

  Six? For a brief moment, I was miffed to think I was that far down the ranking of vets in the district. But come on, Paul, why worry? I wasn’t going to be involved.

  Yet I was unable to stop myself from asking, ‘And all six turned you down?’

  ‘Yes, they did,’ said the girl, sounding decidedly weepy. ‘But one tried to be helpful. He faxed us a list from the Veterinary Register. And we’ve been going through that.’

  How inconsiderate those six vets had been. One of them could have volunteered … and would have stopped me being put on the spot.

  ‘You’re our last chance,’ she went on. ‘We’re down to the “W”s. There’s no one else left on the list.’

  ‘But I’m “M” … “M” for Mitchell,’ I said. Again, did that really matter?

  There was more muffled conferring. ‘… Thought you’d been through the “M”s … Have … Haven’t … Have … Look … see? I’ve ticked them off … But what about him? Oh!’ The voice returned. ‘My sister says she’s sorry but she’d overlooked you.’

  Mmm. Pity it couldn’t have stayed that way. ‘You’ve done the “W”s you say?’ I queried desperately racking my brains for a way out. Wasn’t there a new vet who’d just put up his plate in Westcott? Now what was the chap’s name? Wilson. Yes, that was it – Wilson. Now surely he’d jump at the chance of helping out. A little bit of free advertising. A mention in the parish magazine.

  ‘Wilson?’ echoed the girl. More whispering. ‘We’ve tried him.’

  ‘And?’ I didn’t need to know the answer. He’d be working that afternoon, as it seemed were all the other vets the girl had contacted. My my, what a busy bunch of vets we were in this part of Sussex. Especially next Saturday afternoon.

  ‘You’re not working as well, are you?’ There was desperation in her voice.

  As it happened, I wasn’t; and providing the weather remained fine, I was looking forward to a leisurely afternoon in the back garden at Willow Wren soaking up the sun. But how could I do that without feeling guilty about not helping out? Besides which, it was bound to get back to Reverend James; and with the rectory opposite Willow Wren – the other side of the churchyard – I could see me digging my own grave there if I refused.

  I began to weaken. ‘What sort of show is it?’

  The girl’s tone brightened instantly. ‘It’s very small.’

  ‘Yes. But what would I be judging?’ Crystal’s words filled my head. The last thing I wanted were owners who thought I’d misjudged them – or rather thei
r dogs.

  ‘It will just be children’s pets.’

  Well, that didn’t sound too bad. A few mice, a handful of hamsters, the odd rabbit or two. Yes, I could handle them without too much hassle. So I agreed. ‘And what time does it start?’ I asked.

  ‘Three o’clock in the vicarage garden. But I should get there early if I were you. It’s usually quite popular and there’s often lots of entries. So you might need extra time to judge them.’

  Warning bells should have rung then – but didn’t.

  They started to toll when I told Mandy … then Eric … then Beryl. They all wrung their hands. Crystal just raised hers and shrugged her shoulders in a ‘you have been warned’ fashion.

  ‘Pray for rain,’ was all Lucy would say.

  A large depression on the Friday lifted mine but overnight a ridge of high pressure wriggled in and Saturday dawned warm and sunny.

  ‘There. The perfect day for a fête,’ chuckled Lucy, drawing back the bedroom curtains. A shaft of sun, reflected off the church clock, beamed in and shone across the bed to hit me in the face like some lighthouse beacon picking out a wreck. I certainly felt like one. A nervous wreck.

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a namby-pamby,’ exclaimed Lucy pulling the sheet off me. ‘It’s only children’s pets. It’s not as if you’ll have to contend with the likes of Miss McEwan and her mynah or that actress with her Maltese. It should be a doddle.’

  Despite her reassuring words, I still hoped for some divine intervention. A plague of locusts perhaps? But us British are such a resilient lot. The show would still go on. And no doubt some bright spark would enter one of the locusts for best pet.

  In the end, the only divine intervention I got was in the form of the gangly figure of Reverend James who popped over just before I left for Chawcombe. He carried a sponge cake wrapped in cellophane under one arm.

  ‘I hear from Charles that you’re going to be judging the pets this year.’ Seems the evangelical hotline had clearly been in action. ‘I’m so pleased for him. It’s difficult to find someone each year. You vets are always so busy this particular weekend. Either that or away on holiday.’