‘Paul … hello? Anyone at home?’ Lucy leaned across the sofa and prodded me.
‘Sorry. Miles away.’
‘Exactly. Several thousand light years away by the look of you.’ Lucy sat back and re-directed her gaze at the TV screen where a lioness was stalking through the parched grass of a Kenyan game park, approaching the edge of a lake for a drink. ‘I thought you liked these wildlife programmes.’
True, I did. And, true, I had been watching this one. But as that lioness had drifted through the wildlife park my mind had drifted to our own wildlife park here in Westcott. Yes, I know – there was no real comparison. The grass here was more bowling green than savannah; Westcott’s small lake more for toy boats than slaking the thirst of a lion; and any crocodiles seen would be the lines of school children passing through.
I blamed it all on Crystal. Ever since she’d mentioned us visiting Westcott’s Wildlife Park together I’d been up the Limpopo without a paddle. But even if I’d had a paddle I’d still have been oar-struck at the thought of striding through the reserve with Crystal at my side in a crisp khaki safari jacket, tight jodhpurs and knee-length boots, tracking down an injured rhino here, a battered buffalo there, ever wary of the danger that could be lurking behind the next acacia tree – or rather, weeping willow – as we’re still talking Westcott here – where even if the trail’s hot (and getting more hot and sticky by the minute as my imagination takes fire), the climate’s certainly not.
So we continue to thrash through the bush (rhododendrons) – to emerge at the lakeside (edge of pond) to take in the broad sweep of water (pond again) – the raucous cry of the fish eagle (seagull) and the sight of a pack of hyenas (two dachshunds and a Yorkshire terrier) loping across the parched, yellowed grass (there’d been a hosepipe ban all summer) so typical of this part of Kenya (West Sussex).
I felt another prod.
‘Paul. Why have you got that silly expression on your face? What’s wrong with you?’
Of course, when the visit to Westcott’s Wildlife Park finally materialised it was nothing like I’d imagined. Crystal in tight, white jodhpurs? In your dreams, Paul. Nevertheless, she was dressed for the occasion; well-cut, dark-green corduroy jeans, a chunky polo-neck sweater and Puffa-style, light-green gilet. It was certainly enough to get my bongos beating.
Not so Westcott’s Wildlife Park. I’m not sure what I expected; an expanse of undulating paddocks through which roamed herds of antelope, zebra, a sprinkling of giraffes, set against a backcloth of the green slopes of the Downs? The reality was a fenced-off corner of the municipal gardens across from the seafront, crammed with an ill-assorted collection of pens, paddocks and aviaries containing an even more ill-assorted collection of animals, of which the only one present in sufficient numbers to constitute a herd was the guinea pig.
I guess one could have passed a pleasant summer’s afternoon strolling through the municipal gardens, admiring the beds of purple petunias, the rows of orange marigolds, the reds of adjacent salvias – the kaleidoscope of clashing colours enough to send you reeling off to the Pavilion for a cup of stewed tea drunk from a white plastic cup. If the sight of white-flannelled or pleated-skirted legs bent at the knees and buttocks in bowls-mode didn’t do for you, then you could roll up at Westcott’s Wildlife Park and, for £4.50 a time – £3.00 for pensioners – wander through its herds of rodents.
The day Crystal and I chose to visit, gauzy veils of sea mist had drifted in to saturate the gardens, coat the lawns in silver and hang in heavy folds through the branches of bare trees. The double gates to the Wildlife Park were bolted and chained, the place clearly closed.
Now out of season, it seemed that, from the information provided on a nearby notice board, if you wanted to walk on the wild side you could only do it on Wednesday afternoons, Saturdays and Sundays from October–March.
Crystal drove past the gates and turned down a tarmac track marked ‘Private’, through a tunnel of rhododendrons that gave way to a substantial yard, dominated on one side by a huge mobile home – all gleaming chrome and aluminium. With the forest of aerials and satellite dishes that adorned its roof, it looked as if it had just dropped in from outer space. The adjacent prefabricated building looked very drab and mundane – single-storey, painted green – an office block to judge from the bell and adjacent notice which read ‘Ring’ and ‘Please Enter’.
Not that we had to ring. As we got out of the car, we were greeted by a series of howls that echoed through the trees. Wolves? A touch of Transylvania? Was a pack about to suddenly burst through the fog-bound trees? No … though the two Alsatians that came bounding round from the side of the mobile home, teeth bared, drooling saliva, were just as scary.
‘Hey now, you two … pack it in,’ said Crystal, holding out her arm to allow the dogs to sniff her hand. They immediately quietened down with a whimper and pushed themselves against her thighs.
The man who appeared soon after the dogs was equally savage-looking but more in a Wild-Man-of-Borneo sort of way. He was wild of hair – a mass of grey and black curls that looked desperate to tear themselves away from his scalp – and it was matched by a shaggy, unkempt beard and crumpled clothes that looked as if they’d been slept in for years. Rumpelstiltskin had nothing on this man. Peering out of the tangle of hair were two pebble-black eyes distorted through glasses, worn at the end of his nose, with lenses so murky I was tempted to trace ‘clean me’ across them.
Crystal introduced him. ‘Paul, this is Kevin Winters, head keeper here.’
We shook hands.
‘Paul is our new assistant,’ she went on.
‘Being shown the ropes, eh?’ said Kevin with a smile which caused his lips to pucker out and expose a gap between his upper teeth through which his reply whistled. ‘Well, there’s plenty here to give you a challenge. There’s Cleo for starters.’
As Crystal and I donned overalls and willies, I learnt that Cleo was a camel – a dromedary – the one with one hump.
‘She’s a bit of a bugger at the best of times,’ said Kevin. ‘But now she’s gone lame she’s certainly got the hump.’ He shook his head and exhaled sharply, his breath whistling through the gap in his teeth like a kettle on the boil, the effect enhanced by the cloud of vapour which steamed into the damp air above him.
‘As you say, Kevin, nothing like a challenge,’ said Crystal. She handed me a pack of surgical instruments from the back of the car, lifted out her black bag and closed the boot with a loud thud. ‘OK, let’s get cracking.’
We followed Kevin in single file down a narrow, muddy track through the rhododendrons and emerged on to a gravel path that ran alongside a row of aviaries containing budgerigars, some screeching cockatiels and a moth-eaten mynah. As we passed the bird, I half-expected it to call out, ‘What’s your name?’ Cedric-style. Instead, it looked up and said, ‘See yer later,’ followed by a Kevin-like whistle.
The path continued round an open enclosure where two Thomson gazelles, with their distinctive black flank stripes were grazing, their tails constantly flick, flick, flicking while an ostrich paced up and down the perimeter fence behind them.
The camel’s pen was next door with an open-sided barn in which Cleo was bedded down in a deep pile of straw. She was chewing the cud, her lower lip swinging from side to side, her gaze directed away from us, across the muddy pen as if in a trance – perhaps dreaming of lost Arabian nights. She slowly swung her head in our direction as we approached the barn gate and gave us a haughty look, flicking her long eyelashes at us. I noticed she had a head collar on it. So at least she could be handled – or so I thought.
Once inside the pen, we picked our way over to her, stopping when Kevin put out a straining hand saying, ‘I shouldn’t get any closer if I were you. She’s liable to spit.’ Certainly enough froth had built up around Cleo’s lips to do a cappuccino proud; and by the way the muscles in her throat were contracting, I guessed she was working up another mouthful ready, it seemed, to send our way. All the time she
remained crouched, her knees resting in the straw with her hind legs splayed out behind, soles uppermost. I knew camels had two toes on each foot – I hadn’t watched Lawrence of Arabia three times for nothing.
Kevin was pointing to one of them now. ‘I reckon it’s her right hind foot. She’s been favouring that leg these past couple of days.’
‘Can you hold her for us?’ asked Crystal, putting down her bag.
‘Depends on her mood. Some days she plays up and you can’t get near her.’ Kevin extracted a head rope from his dungarees. ‘But we can have a go.’ He began walking up to her, whistling through his teeth. ‘Hello, Cleo. You going to be a good girl for us today?’
Her neck arched and she swung round baring a set of broken, yellow teeth before a stream of semi-digested cud showered out and splattered down Kevin’s front. Clearly this was going to be one of her ‘Bugger off, you lot’ days.
‘And good morning to you, too, you old cow,’ said Kevin wiping his beard.
She lunged out again, this time emitting a deep guttural roar which tailed off into a bubbling rumble as another lump of cud was prepared for ejection. Kevin nimbly jumped back and whistled. ‘Not one of her better days, I’m afraid,’ he said.
That was all too obvious. Even though we weren’t climbing on that hump of hers, we were in for a bumpy ride. Clearly this Cleopatra was missing her Antony.
‘We could sedate her, I suppose,’ mused Crystal, ‘but I’d rather not unless we absolutely have to.’ She edged towards Cleo’s hindquarters. There was a twitch of a tail and a flurry of urine-stained straw flicked into the air. Cleo swung round with another determined lunge. ‘Nope. We’re going to have to restrain her somehow,’ muttered Crystal, stepping back.
‘I’ll call the two lads over and see if they can help us,’ said Kevin and put two fingers in his mouth. The piercing whistle that he emitted would have shocked even Liza. It certainly gave Cleo something to chew over. Her jaws suddenly ground to a halt and her bottom lip dropped, strings of saliva hanging from it.
Within minutes, the two lads had appeared. For some reason, I’d been expecting two strapping young keepers with enough muscle power to help wrestle Cleo into submission. What I saw clambering over the gate were two miniature Kevins, minus the glasses – youngsters of about 12, of slight build, each with an identical mop of Kevin’s shaggy, black hair.
‘Meet the twins,’ he said, ‘Ben and Barnaby.’ The three of them standing together looked like a set of chimney brushes. ‘Right, boys,’ continued Kevin, ‘Cleo’s having a strop.’
‘What’s new?’ piped up one of the lads.
‘Anyway, you know what to do. It’s worked before. So let’s give it a go now.’
The three of them spread out round Cleo’s head, sufficiently out of range of her teeth, though not from the spit that came flying out in all directions like an out-ofcontrol garden sprinkler; and what cascaded through the air was green and lumpy and smelled as evil as an unemptied dog litter bin on a hot day.
But it didn’t deter the three of them. They bobbed and weaved in front of Cleo, each clapping and calling for her attention. Ben and Barnaby really got into the swing of things, jumping up and down, like jacks-in-a-box, waving their arms above their mops of curls.
‘Cleo … here,’ shouted Ben – or was it Barnaby?
She swung in his direction.
‘Cleo … over here,’ shouted Barnaby – or was it Ben?
If Cleo wasn’t confused, I certainly was.
But the twins were enough of a distraction to enable Kevin eventually to dart forward, grab her head collar and clip on the rope. And with her head once restrained, she immediately calmed down, though she still continued to puff out her cheeks and utter low rumbles of anger.
Now it was the turn of us two vets to step in. We did so with caution, both Crystal and I wary of the beast, even though Kevin now had her head firmly secured and held close to his chest. There was still the risk of an almighty kick from one of those back legs should Cleo chose to strike a blow for camel’s lib.
‘Which foot did you say it was?’ queried Crystal bending over, hands on her knees, peering down at the camel’s hind legs, half-buried in straw.
‘Her right,’ said Kevin, scuffling forwards as Cleo tried to pull away. ‘Hold still, you bugger,’ he added with a whistle.
‘OK, Paul, let’s see what we’ve got here.’ Crystal crouched down alongside Cleo’s massive thighs and reached down to pull the straw away from the camel’s upturned toes.
I shuffled up next to her. ‘Careful now,’ she warned, ‘in case she kicks out. I quickly shuffled back a pace or two. No need to be too heroic here; I was no Lawrence. ‘Guess there’s the reason for her lameness,’ said Crystal, her finger circling above the sole between the claws of Cleo’s right foot. The area was swollen, the skin red and angry-looking.
‘An abscess?’ I said, peering over her shoulder.
‘I should think so. Probably the result of a puncture wound.’
Kevin chipped in. ‘You going to lance it then?’
I looked down at Crystal.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s the idea.’
Kevin gave a long whistle. ‘Right, lads,’ he said, turning to the twins, ‘you both stand out of the way. Like Maggie Thatcher, this lady’s not for turning.’
For a moment, I thought he was referring to Crystal who, indeed, did have a very determined look on her face. But he was talking about Cleo. He now had his right arm tucked round the back of her head, his hand holding on to the head collar on that side. Her chin he held close with his left hand, still clutching the head rope, the end of which was wrapped round his wrist. If Cleo was going to lunge, Kevin was going to take the lunge with her.
With the instrument pack unwrapped at a distance judged to be safely out of kicking range, disinfectant was splashed on to the affected sole. Cleo gave a low grumble and shifted her weight – all 500 kilos of it – her brown, mountainous hump tilting towards us.
‘Just watch out,’ warned Crystal.
I’d taken out a scalpel handle and attached a blade ready to give to Crystal but wisely put it back until required. She had now edged back over Cleo’s right foot and was about to prod the swollen sole to locate the spot where the skin pitted most – the spot to plunge the blade in.
Despite her warning, despite the fact we were all tensed and ready, we were still unprepared for the ferocity of Cleo’s reaction to having her foot prodded, however gently. There was an agonised bellow. Her right leg thrashed out in a cloud of straw. Crystal was knocked back into my arms.
‘Shit!’ she exclaimed and quickly extricated herself from my embrace. Her chest was heaving. So was mine.
Cleo’s leg was now sticking out in the straw.
‘Hey, Dad, we’ll sit on her,’ chirruped Ben and Barnaby.
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ said Crystal who, having brushed herself down, had recovered her composure.
‘What the heck,’ whistled Kevin. ‘They’d enjoy a bit of a rough and tumble. Go on, boys. But be careful,’ he added.
The twins darted forward and each of them straddled Cleo’s back leg, clinging on as if preparing themselves for a rodeo.
‘Oh, very well,’ said Crystal sounding far from enthusiastic.
I handed her the scalpel and backed away, but not too far. ‘Here goes then,’ she said, glancing round. ‘Hold on to your horses.’
Camels, Crystal, camels.
She palpated the sole once again. Cleo roared. Her thigh muscles trembled and bulged. But the two lads grimly held on, rocking up and down and from side to side.
Then in plunged the tip of the scalpel and out poured a fountain of pus. Cleo shrieked again. She wrenched her head round, trailing Kevin with her. She gave a massive kick. The boys bounced off … Crystal reeled back … my arms opened wide.
Ben and Barnaby fell into them.
By the time we had sorted ourselves out, Cleo had staggered to her feet and was standing
, her sides heaving in and out like bellows, her head covered in sticky, green foam. But Kevin was still hanging on, dangling from her head rope.
‘Just hold on a mo’,’ said Crystal. ‘We need to give her a shot of antibiotics.’ The twins meanwhile had skipped round to the front of the camel, none the worse for their tumble, and were ready to distract Cleo again if necessary. But it seems we had knocked the wind out of her sails as she stood there, motionless, while Crystal plunged a massive dose of long-acting penicillin into her thigh.
‘One down and one to go I believe,’ said Cleo, slapping Cleo’s rump, clearly in her element, thoroughly enjoying herself.
Our next port of call was a large pen totally enclosed in mesh, fitted out with wooden perches, swings and tyres suspended from chains. It was clearly not kitted out for the likes of guinea pigs or rabbits, and was a bit OTT for budgerigars, so what was it for, I wondered?
Leading off the pen was a small tunnel, screened by a rubber flap, which gave access to a shed. It was from this shed that came a muffled volley of squeals and grunts.
‘Sounds as if Mitchell’s up to his old tricks again,’ said Crystal, striding over to the side of the shed and giving it a hefty thump.
I wondered what form my namesake would take: Mitch the meerkat … Mitch the mongoose … or Mitch the mouse? Oh, no, surely not Mitch the mouse. I cringed at the thought.
Fingers curled round the bottom of the flap and lifted it a fraction; a pair of yellow-grey eyes peered out.
Crystal thumped the shed wall again. ‘Come on out, big boy.’
Ah, this sounded more like it. Mitchell was a big boy, then – more of a mighty Mitch.
Crystal rattled the lock on the door. That did the trick; out shot a lanky-bodied monkey with ginger-brown fur and a long, straight tail, carried erect.
‘That’s Melinda,’ Kevin informed me.
She was closely followed by two more monkeys, one hugging a baby close to her chest.
‘Maureen and Mavis,’ I was told, ‘Mitch’s harem.’
Hmmmm. This was getting interesting. The star of the show was obviously a full-blooded male.
Pets in a Pickle Page 23
