Pets in a Pickle

by Malcolm D Welshman

  That set the tone for a track record of visits. Whenever she phoned demanding one, I’d be trapped into making it. You could bet on it every time.

  On that visit, as on subsequent ones, I had problems finding her in the maze of sheds, lean-tos and outhouses that encircled her bungalow. I never discovered her in the house actually sitting, putting her feet up. Her feet were always firmly entrenched in green gumboots, plastered in mud, striding from building to building.

  She could be in the kennels housing her greyhounds and beagles or in the stables with her three Welsh ponies. Failing that, there were the hen houses and duck quarters; and, if not in there, then in the pig sties tending to Gert and Daisy, her Yorkshire Saddleback pigs.

  Central to this conglomeration of buildings, adjoining the tack room, was a small shed which she called her ‘brain centre’. An office of sorts, it was littered with paper. Charts of pig growth curves hung, faded and lopsided from the walls. A curling, year-at-a-glance calendar given to her by a veterinary drug company, its logo emblazoned across the top, was festooned with multi-coloured pins and scribbled names. Bessie, Babs, Clarence and many more, signalled the dates that bitches were mated, dates they were due, intermingled with farrowing sows, calving cows and dates booked for the farrier and horse dentist. It looked like some coded battle plan from World War II with Miss Millichip the Commander-in-Chief, the only person capable of unscrambling it all.

  Along the opposite wall ranged a series of shelves, bowed down under the weight of a motley collection of ancient books and journals: Hodder’s Guide to Animal Husbandry was one title I picked out – 1961, second edition. Another was General Principles of Animal Nursing. Its sepia pages could have proudly graced the shelves of the Science Museum’s library. But one book above all – a book that Mildred Millichip constantly referred to – was an old veterinary dictionary, long since superseded by later editions. The binding was cracked, pages Sellotaped in, others dog-eared from constant use. And that was the problem – the constant use. Miss Millichip was always quoting this dictionary, always looking up medical conditions, always trying the suggested remedies.

  ‘My bible,’ she’d say, forgetting her bible was an edition more appropriate for treating the ailments of the animals as they emerged from the ark rather than administering to the needs of modern livestock. The greyhounds with the ear problems were a good example.

  ‘Canker,’ declared Miss Millichip in a no-nonsense, don’t-challenge-me tone of voice. She’d hoisted one of the greyhounds on to a table in what she called her ‘inspection shed’ where the poor creature sat trembling, head tilted to one side. When the dog’s hind leg came up in an attempt to dig at her ear, Miss Millichip’s hand shot out to ram the leg down.

  ‘Stop that, Gemima,’ she boomed. Both dog and I flinched.

  Besides my usual black bag, I’d brought a small leather case containing a set of instruments for looking at eyes and ears. I was particularly proud of this set – precision-made in Germany, expensive and brand new. Time spent peering unclearly into the murky depths of dogs’ ears was now a thing of the past. With the aid of my gleaming auriscope, I could scan those canals, now sufficiently well illuminated and magnified, to make diagnosis of any ear problem an easy task.

  Well, in theory anyway.

  Aware that Miss Millichip’s torpedo eyes were trained on me, I made a show of snapping open the case, picking out the auriscope base and clipping on the head containing the bulb and magnifying lens. I now had to attach a cone from a choice of four, varying in size according to the size of the ear canal being examined.

  ‘Now let’s see,’ I said aloud, ‘which one would be most suitable for Gemima?’ My fingers hovered over the cones. I felt like a little schoolboy deciding on which sweetie to choose. Will I ever grow up?

  There was a loud sniff from Miss Millichip.

  ‘This one I think,’ I continued, lifting out the largest with an exaggerated flourish. Boy, was I showing off.

  There was another disapproving sniff from Miss Millichip. ‘Haven’t got time for all that fancy gadgetry,’ she said.

  ‘Ah, but having the proper equipment does help one reach the correct diagnosis,’ I replied (pompous prat) and waved the auriscope at her like a magician about to perform some wonderful trick.

  ‘No need. I’ve already told you what it is – canker.’

  ‘We’ll soon find out.’ I advanced on the trembling greyhound and lifted her right ear. She winced and pulled away. ‘So this is the bad one is it?’

  ‘They both hurt,’ said Miss Millichip, edging round the table to clamp the dog’s head firmly to her bosom. ‘Now hold still, Gemima, while the vet pokes his newfangled contraption down your ear.’

  ‘It’s called an “auriscope’‘,’ I informed her.

  ‘Well, whatever. Just see how bad the canker is.’

  I switched on the instrument so that the bulb illuminated the cone, gently lifted the flap of Gemima’s ear and eased the tip of the cone in. I peered down. Nothing. I eased the cone up a little and slid it back in. Still nothing – a blank wall. Literally that; a solid wall of white.

  ‘Your gadget playing up then?’ queried Miss Millichip.

  ‘Well … I’m not sure …’ I eased the auriscope out. The tip of the cone was caked in a clump of wet, chalky material. No wonder I couldn’t see down it. ‘What’s this?’ I waved the cone at Miss Millichip.

  ‘Your horiscope or whatever you call it.’

  ‘No … the muck on the end of it.’

  ‘Bit of my canker treatment by the looks of it,’ she said peering at the end of the cone as I pushed it under her nose. ‘Boracic acid powder, twice daily. As recommended in my dictionary for the treatment of mites.’

  I winced, resisting the urge to shove the cone up her nose. Now, now, Paul … that’s not professional. Keep cool. ‘But it hasn’t worked, has it?’

  ‘My dictionary says it should.’

  I fought to keep my voice from rising. ‘But it hasn’t, has it?’

  ‘Well … the dogs do seem a bit quieter since I started the treatment. So maybe it’s had some effect.’

  Quieter, eh? I thought. Probably because they couldn’t hear themselves bark with all that stuff rammed in their ears. But it wouldn’t have killed off the ear mites if they were present unless the sheer volume of powder Miss Millichip had been pouring in had suffocated them. ‘Look, first we need to syringe Gemima’s ears out. The same applies to your other dogs.’

  ‘I’ll get some soapy water with a pinch of washing soda in it.’

  ‘Er … I don’t think that’s wise. Soapy water on red raw ear canals …’ I shook my head. ‘Gemima would hit the roof.’

  ‘But my dictionary says …’

  I interrupted. ‘Forget your dictionary. There’s a new preparation I use to clean out the ear canals so that the mites can then treated.’

  Miss Millichip glanced up at the dictionary on her bookshelf.

  ‘No, you won’t find it in there,’ I added firmly. ‘But it does work – honest. Let me show you.’

  Ten minutes later, I’d excavated all the compressed powder that had been shovelled down Gemima’s ear canals. Another check with the auriscope revealed a thriving colony of mites. ‘Now use this,’ I said, handing over a small plastic bottle of anti-parasitic solution. ‘A good squirt down each ear and massage well in.’

  Miss Millichip peered dubiously at the bottle – it looked lost in her massive hand. ‘This won’t go far. Most of my dogs and half the cats are scratching or shaking their heads. My dictionary says I should treat the lot.’

  For once, I agreed with her dictionary. A litre of mange dressing was ordered from the local wholesalers. Miss Millichip looked it up in her dictionary. Yes – the dressing was mentioned, so she was happy to use it.

  A week later, she was on the phone again. Beryl waved me over. ‘It’s Mildred Millichip,’ she whispered loudly. ‘She wants another visit.’

  ‘Well, Crystal’s around, she ca
n go. After all, that’s who she wanted in the first place.’

  ‘Not any more. She wants you. Seems she was impressed by your “horiscope’‘.’ Beryl pulled a ‘what-on-earth-doesshe-mean?’ face. But she booked the visit when I nodded. As I explained to her later, no, Miss Millichip hadn’t read my palm, got the Tarot cards out or gazed into a crystal ball. But I wish she had, then I might have been prepared for what was to come.

  I’d rung the bell on the front door of the bungalow several times. I could hear it buzzing away deep inside, but no one came. I guessed Miss Millichip was probably round the back somewhere – that somewhere being the maze of outbuildings that stretched through the acre or so of garden. Several greyhounds came bounding out into their runs from the long, wooden poultry shed which housed their kennels. They leapt up at the mesh fencing, tails wagging, barking furiously.

  I’d been about to call out for Miss Millichip but it seemed pointless to try and compete against the cacophony of barks and howls that had now erupted. I expected the racket to have drawn Miss Millichip from whichever building she happened to be in. But there was still no sign of her. Really, this was not good news; my time was precious. I shouldn’t have to hunt the woman down; she should be here to meet me. Beginning to feel cross, I marched over to the so-called office, the door of which was open. That old veterinary dictionary – the red, tattered one – lay open on the table. No doubt Miss Millichip had been genning up before doing battle with me.

  I stepped out and round to the stables where the three Welsh cobs looked up from their hay nets and gave a whicker of greeting. Still no sign of her. Chickens flapped and squawked, jumping away from me as I slithered down the muddy path towards the pigsty. The noise of the hounds had abated somewhat so I stopped, cleared my throat and shouted, ‘Miss Millichip.’ A crow cawed in the field beyond. A couple of ducks came running up, quacking, looking for scraps. Still no answer. I tried again. ‘Miss Millichip.’

  Two heads appeared round the corner of the pigsty; porky eyes peered at me; several grunts were uttered; and then, with a squeal from each of them, the two Saddlebacks trotted to the centre of their mudbath of a paddock and turned to stare at me, jowls chomping, froth and flecks of red bubbling round their snouts.

  My heart skipped a beat. Just what was that round their lips? That red foam? Blood? I picked my way over to the sty’s fence for a closer look. The pigs gave another loud snort and swung away. It was then I heard the moan … a long, soft moan coming from inside the sty. I could feel my heart thumping against my chest as I clung to the fence to prevent myself slipping in the sea of mud which had oozed through from the paddock and made the path up to the sty treacherous. There was another moan as I reached the wall of the sty and peered over, dreading what I might find. And my worst fears were realised.

  There lay Miss Millichip, sprawled on the muddy concrete, half-conscious, neck twisted to one side, a gash on her temple, and half her face eaten away.

  Of course, it made banner headlines in the Westcott Gazette: YOUNG VET SAVES LADY’S BACON – full report on page three. There it was given a good half-page with a photo of me grinning nervously next to Gert and Daisy and another of me looking equally nervous next to a head-bandaged Miss Millichip in hospital.

  As it turned out, my initial impression of Miss Millichip’s features being torn from her face by two rampaging pigs had been a little wide of the mark – a little too Grand Guignol. True, she had gashed her head open when she’d slipped in their pen and, true, Gertie and Daisy had investigated, snuffling at her bloody wound. When asked my veterinary opinion as to whether they would have made a meal of her, well, there seemed no harm in suggesting that it could have happened.

  ‘So,’ said the young reporter, ‘if you hadn’t turned up when you did, it would have been chips for her.’

  Indeed – Millichips, I thought to myself, but said nothing aloud for fear of being quoted. Wouldn’t do to ham things up too much.

  Of course, the publicity generated was good for the practice. There seemed to be a sudden surge in new clients with much whispering of ‘That’s him … there …’ and nudging of elbows as I walked through the waiting room riding high on my new-found fame – nothing like hogging the limelight – until I overheard someone saying, ‘He’s the pig man … hmm … looks like one, too.’ That soon brought me back to earth with a bump.

  As for Miss Millichip, what could I say? Well, actually, I could have said virtually anything. She was so … so grateful for what I had done. Not that she necessarily took any notice of what I said. That depended whether it tallied with her bible – that red, battered out-of-date veterinary dictionary of hers.

  When she’d recovered and was back at her bungalow, the battle between the gospel according to Paul – Paul Mitchell, that is – and the faith that she gained from her dictionary recommenced. An unholy war of words would erupt on every subsequent visit.

  ‘Jasper’s coat feels very greasy,’ I said, having just given a greyhound his booster vaccination while holding up his scruff. I looked at my fingers, sliding them together.

  ‘I’ve been rubbing olive oil into his skin,’ stated Miss Millichip. ‘My dictionary says it’s the best way to treat dandruff.’

  I glanced at my watch. There was still time to explain the problems of seborrhoea before I had to get back for evening surgery. I left Miss Millichip leafing through the ‘S for skin’ entry in her dictionary, and placed a bottle of medicated shampoo on the table beside her.

  On another occasion, one of her beagles suffered for a fortnight with a sore eye. Miss Millichip had been bathing it with weak, strained tea.

  ‘Doesn’t seem to be getting any better,’ she admitted when she eventually called me in.

  The poor beagle had very puffy eyelids with severe reddening of the lining, the corners stained brown with tears. The centre of the eye was white and pitted.

  ‘What’s that green stuff?’ asked Miss Millichip, watching me suspiciously as I instilled some drops into the dog’s eye.

  ‘Fluorescein – it will show us if there’s any ulceration there.’

  ‘Jasper’s just got a cold in his eye. That’s what it says in my dictionary.’

  ‘Oh really?’ I replied, turning the beagle’s head towards her. The fluorescein had clearly delineated the crater pitting the surface of the cornea. ‘Does your dictionary tell you what that is – U for ulcer?’ She was given a tube of antibiotic ointment to put in the eye three times a day. ‘And no more tea,’ I snapped as she glanced up at the bookshelf.

  The final showdown came that December when Miss Millichip’s greyhounds and beagles erupted in a frenzy of scratching and biting at themselves. The result was dogs with angry red spots on their abdomens and legs, and large areas of raw, seeping skin, the hair in those areas having been rubbed away.

  The annunciation made by Miss Millichip via her bible was ‘E for eczema’ – ‘Classic symptoms,’ she boomed.

  Not that damned book again, I thought, as I completed the examination of 12 very itchy dogs.

  In each case, I only had to run my finger lightly along one of their flanks for a back leg to shoot up and start clawing at the skin. A very strong scratch reflex. But what was causing the irritation? F for fleas? Yet there were no signs of flea dirts. M for mange? The lesions weren’t typical. My mental dictionary was beginning to let me down. I needed to come up with a diagnosis ASAP before I became S for stumped.

  As we walked back across the yard from the kennels, I stopped to peer into a shed full of straw bales.

  ‘I suppose you’ve tried treating the dogs?’ I asked, leaning over the door to pick up a handful of straw. Silly question. The answer was bound to be ‘Yes’.

  ‘Of course – chopped parsley, garlic pills and boiled fish. Internal cleansing. Does the world of good.’ Miss Millichip saw my look – S for sceptical. ‘Well, it can often help,’ she added.

  ‘But not in this case,’ I said, throwing down the straw and smacking my hands together to shak
e off the dust.

  ‘I’m now trying Simpson’s Blood Mixture. My dictionary recommends it to cool the blood.’

  ‘An F-word would be the best thing for this lot.’

  ‘You what? An F-word?’ exclaimed Miss Millichip, visibly startled. I swear that wasn’t in her bible.

  ‘F for fire. Put a match to all this straw.’

  ‘But I couldn’t possibly do that,’ she protested. ‘It’s the straw for the dogs’ bedding. I’ve only just bought it. Cost me a packet.’

  ‘Cost you more than a packet if you persist in using it. Your dogs will end up with chronic skin damage.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘The straw’s alive with forage mites. They’re causing all the itchiness. Burn the lot of it.’

  Miss Millichip opened her mouth to protest again.

  ‘Mildred, burn it,’ I repeated. ‘It will save you a great deal in vet’s bills.’

  That struck a cord. A match was struck, too, and the straw was burned.

  ‘I also burned that old veterinary dictionary,’ she later told me.

  I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘You did what, Mildred?’

  ‘You heard – burnt it.’

  Wow! So Miss Millichip had finally got rid of that wretched dictionary. I felt like a punch-drunk priest on hearing the news. ‘You can’t imagine how pleased I am to hear you say that,’ I confessed.

  Thank God. Now there’d be no more ancient remedies inflicted on the animals; and Miss Millichip would at last accept my advice without constantly referring to that battered old book of hers. But hang on – she hadn’t finished yet.

  ‘I must admit it was rather out-of-date. So I decided it was high time I bought the latest edition.’ She waved a glossy, pristine book at me. ‘My new bible.’

  At the sight of it, my feelings rapidly became very unchristian, so I quickly decided on only one course of action – E for exit.

  THE WILD SIDE OF WESTCOTT

  ‘What planet are you on?’

  I didn’t reply.