Pets in a Pickle
Page 27
Mr McBeath looked no better. ‘We wish you a merry Christmas …’ had long since died on his lips. Stony-faced and gravelly-voiced, he could have given a block of granite a good run for its money.
‘So Eve’s being sick?’ I asked.
There was a big intake of breath. Mr McBeath exhaled, at the same time emitting a deep, booming fog-horn ‘Aye’.
My enquiry as to whether Eve had brought anything up elicited an equally sonorous ‘Noooo’. Mr McBeath was clearly a man of few words.
I gently stood Eve up, where she remained hunched, her short tail dropped. I began to palpate her abdomen, carefully kneading her between my fingers and thumb, pushing my hand towards her spine. A kidney was felt … her spleen slid past … loops of bowel … a lump. I edged my fingers back and felt again. Yes, a lump. I squeezed it cautiously and Eve groaned. I’d found Mickey’s mortal remains. The fact that Eve was being sick suggested that the mouse was causing a blockage. I explained this to Mr McBeath.
‘You do realise we may need to operate.’
‘Aye,’ he boomed.
‘But we’ll take an X-ray first if that’s OK with you.’
‘Aye.’
‘So we’ll hospitalise Eve now, all right?’
His ‘Aye’ reverberated in my ears.
‘OK, Lucy,’ I said, ‘let’s see what we’ve got here.’ I’d brought the cat through to the X-ray room where she’d been laid out, an X-ray plate under her. We were now ready to take a radiograph of Eve’s abdomen.
It all went very smoothly with Lucy working with quiet efficiency, not speaking a word unless spoken to. The radiograph showed a large, opaque mass in Eve’s intestinal tract.
‘See, look, even the mouse’s head is visible,’ I said, pointing to the off-white outline of the skull. And Lucy did look, her eyes all at once fired with interest.
‘Are you going to have to operate?’ she finally asked, turning the full force of her hazel eyes on me.
I drew a sharp breath between clenched teeth and said, ‘I’m afraid it looks like it. But it won’t be easy.’ I could see that not only would the operation be a tricky one but the cat was in a poor condition, dehydrated from the constant vomiting, so making her a higher risk.
Suddenly, Lucy’s hand was on my wrist. ‘It will be fine, Paul. You’ll see.’
It was, too. With autoclaved instruments to hand, a drip set up, the anaesthetic machine at the ready, Lucy ensured the operation went like clockwork. I was impressed with how well she coped, especially with no Mandy to oversee her. Our timely intervention ensured the mouse was removed in minutes; and Eve was soon ticking over in the ward, well on her way to recovery.
‘See. What did I tell you?’ murmured Lucy.
‘But it was only with your help,’ I said turning to her, my hand stretching out, about to brush her cheek when the phone started ringing.
‘I’ll answer it,’ said Lucy backing away, to turn and run out of the ward.
‘You’ll never believe this,’ she said dashing back. ‘A dog’s swallowed a Christmas stocking.’
She was right; it was difficult to believe. First a mouse … and now a stocking. What next? A sprig of holly? A cracker or two? Pull the other one, Paul. It was no joke. So, yes, I did find it hard to swallow, though it seemed these wretched animals didn’t.
‘The man on the phone won’t listen to any advice from me,’ she went on. ‘Could you have a word?’
Up in reception, I picked up the receiver to be told about the stocking hung at the bottom of the bed for the wife. She loved chocolates … only so did their Rottweiler. And he found them first.
‘Scoffed the lot,’ said the man. ‘The stocking as well.’
‘Have you tried making him sick?’
‘How would I do that?’
‘By pushing a lump of washing soda down his throat.’
‘I don’t think Bismarck would let us near enough to do that.’
I flinched as a growl blasted from the handset.
‘Down, Bismarck,’ ordered the voice. ‘Down. Sorry about that,’ he added, ‘he is rather excitable.’
‘Well, it might be worth a try,’ I urged.
‘Ummm … just a minute then.’ There was a brief, muffled discussion in which I heard the word ‘vet’ before the voice returned. ‘My wife says she doesn’t keep that sort of thing in the house.’ There was another growl and a ‘Down, Bismarck’.
‘Well, how about some strong salt solution?’
Another growl. ‘Down. Sorry?’
‘Strong salt solution …?’ I faltered, willing myself to picture the perfect scene – the man and his wife each side of the passive Rottweiler who opens his heavy, powerful jowls at their command and allows them to spoon the salty solution into the side of his mouth. He licks their hands gratefully as they finish.
Another savage growl thundered down the line. ‘You’d better bring him in,’ I said.
I glanced at my watch. Oh well … bye, bye, Christmas lunch. Hello, the Queen’s speech if we were lucky.
Bismarck was a magnificent specimen – a gleaming, black-and-tan coat, broad, heavy head, and a well-muscled body that rippled with strength.
Mr Dumbrill, in contrast, was a small, spindly chap whose grey coat drooped from his shoulders like the wings on a hunched heron. The dog was clearly the boss and, taking one look at me, launched himself across the consulting room in a frenzy of snarls and slobbering jaws.
‘Hey, where’s your Christmas spirit?’ I yelled, jumping back to flatten myself against the wall.
Mr Dumbrill’s cries of ‘Heel, boy! Heel!’ were lost as he and Bismarck careered round, a jumble of arms, legs and paws, the dog’s lead hopelessly entangled between them. Mr Dumbrill twirled and toppled on to a chair, Bismarck trapped between his knees, both owner and dog tied in a cat’s cradle of knots.
‘Just the job,’ declared Lucy, who had just marched in with a large lump of washing soda between finger and thumb, a determined look in her eye.
She advanced on Bismarck. ‘Open!’ she commanded, tipping the dog’s head back.
Mr Dumbrill’s jaw dropped.
Mine dropped too.
Bismarck’s did as well. It enabled her to flick the lump of crystals over his tongue. There was a firm snap of his teeth as she clamped his jaws shut and vigorously massaged his throat.
‘Swallow, you beast. Swallow!’
Both Mr Dumbrill and I swallowed and, seconds later, there was an audible gulp from Bismarck.
‘I should think so, too,’ said Lucy.
She had that look in her face – that no-nonsense Lucy Look of determination. She was in control. No hiding her light under a bushel here; she was positively shining, glowing with confidence. It put me in the shade.
Bismarck was now beginning to foam at the mouth.
‘Oh dear, are you sure he’s not going to have as fit?’ cried Mr Dumbrill, himself beginning to foam in sympathy, flecks of spittle appearing at the corners of his mouth.
‘No, he’ll be fine,’ stated Lucy firmly, unravelling the lead and steering Bismarck away from the trembling man. ‘Now just leave him with us so that we can keep an eye on him.’
‘Why?’ croaked Mr Dumbrill, looking at me.
I was going to say that if Bismarck didn’t regurgitate the sock it could block his insides – like that mouse in Eve – and we would then have to operate to remove it. But I caught Lucy’s look and realised it would get Mr Dumbrill into an even bigger flap if I told him this.
‘To make sure he brings the sock up,’ I said instead.
While Lucy hauled Bismarck down to the ward, I ushered Mr Dumbrill out, telling him to stop worrying, go home and tuck into his turkey … which reminded me of my frozen bird awaiting me back at Willow Wren. As I wandered forlornly down to the ward I heard a loud burp. I raced along the corridor.
‘Any luck?’
Lucy was backing out of Bismarck’s kennel. She stood up, bolted the door and turned to me. ‘Ta-dah!’ she exclaime
d triumphantly, holding up a soggy, red stocking.
‘Only problem now is – where do we hang it?’ I joked. The relief that flooded through me was not so much at the sight of the regurgitated sock as at the smile that lit up Lucy’s face.
When a delighted Mr Dumbrill collected Bismarck later that afternoon, he handed us a similar red sock – only this one bulged with a bottle of champagne.
‘For both of you – Merry Christmas!’ he cried, as Bismarck yanked the lead and dragged him out of reception.
I held up the bottle. Here was a chance to test Lucy … see how she really felt. She certainly seemed more relaxed, her mood happier. Perhaps it was because, with these last two cases, she’d been able to prove that she really was an efficient, dependable nurse. ‘I guess we ought to be celebrating something,’ I said, waving the bottle in the air. My voice trailed off as I studied Lucy’s face, desperately looking for a clue as to her feelings, some sign of her new-found confidence. In a whisper, I added, ‘A home-coming, perhaps?’
For a brief moment, Lucy’s face remained impassive. Then her eyes suddenly lit up with renewed sparkle and her lips curved into that gorgeous smile of hers. ‘A home-coming … yes, that would be good,’ she said and reached up to plant her lips emphatically on mine.
As we locked up in the dark and crunched down the gravel drive, arm in arm, a rising full moon bathed the front of Prospect House in a wash of luminous grey.
I turned to look at the portico, its pillars like shafts of silver. It had only been seven months since I’d first set eyes on that entrance, an entrance that had opened a whole new chapter of my life.
I turned to Lucy.
Moonbeams danced in her hazel eyes. The look she gave me – that lovely Lucy look – spoke volumes … of further chapters … more episodes. The prospects ahead looked good. Very good indeed.
As we climbed into the car, I started to hum: ‘Odl lay ee … Odl lay hee hee …’
COPYRIGHT
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This edition published in paperback in 2011
This book was previously published as Pets in Prospect
ISBN: 978 1 84358 361 5
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Table of Contents
T ITLE P AGE
E PIGRAPH
F OREWORD BY J IM W IGHT
1 V ET IN P ROSPECT
2 A W ING AND A P RAYER
3 F ORTUNE F AVOURS THE B RAVE
4 H EAVYWEIGHT K NOCK -O UT
5 A T URN FOR THE B ETTER
6 C REATURE C OMFORTS
7 T ODAY’S S PECIALS : H OT D OG AND F ILLET OF F ISH
8 C YRIL T AKES THE B ISCUIT
9 A ND T HIS L ITTLE P IGGY H AD N ONE
10 T HERE’S N OTHING L IKE A D AME
11 A F ÊTE W ORSE THAN D EATH
12 L UCY P ROVES A P OINT
13 R UFFLED F EATHERS
14 E XOTIC C HANCER
15 B IBLE B ASHER
16 T HE W ILD S IDE OF W ESTCOTT
17 T HE L AND T HAT T IME F ORGOT
18 A C RACKER OF A C HRISTMAS
C OPYRIGHT