Pets in a Pickle (7 page)

Freeing Leo’s inert body from the noose, I pulled him up on to the bench top. The Major pushed me aside in his eagerness to look at the wound. ‘Ah … ah ha … just as I thought. It’s fly-blown. See?’ He poked a finger and thumb in the wound and held up a wriggling white maggot. ‘Saw it once in a leopard I shot. It ruined the pelt.’

I fetched my black bag and began cleaning up the torn skin, snipping back the matted hair, wiping away the yellow ooze and dipping a pair of tweezers into the seething mass of grubs, to pick them out one by one.

‘Drop them in there,’ instructed the Major, pointing to an empty seed tray. ‘Twenty four,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘Pity I don’t still fish.’ He shuffled the tray from side to side watching the maggots roll round and round. ‘Just think,’ he mused. ‘Poor old Leo walking round with that little lot squirming around under his skin. Just proves what a tough little blighter he is.’ As he spoke, he lifted up the cat’s tail and peered between his legs. ‘By Jove. What whoppers. Bet he’s the talk of the town amongst the ladies round here.’

I paused midway through dusting the wound with anti-parasitic powder. ‘Do you want me to castrate him while he’s under?’

‘What … and turn him into a poofter? No way.’

With the wound cleaned and powdered, I gave Leo a shot of long-acting penicillin. ‘I’m afraid the area’s too large to stitch. We’ll just have to leave it to granulate over.’

‘Then I’ll keep him confined to barracks,’ declared the Major. ‘He’ll stay in the greenhouse.’

Throughout the following week, Beryl was inundated with progress reports on Leo: the times he was fed; the state of the wound; his daily movements within the greenhouse. Lucy came back from the local delicatessen to inform me a special order had been placed by Major Fitzherbert for daily supplies of tuna, smoked salmon and herring mops. I also heard that his friends were being coerced into coming round to see the invalid and watch the Major stalk in to feed him. ‘Leo’s the talk of the town,’ said Lucy. ‘Well, at least of Gainsborough Drive. And apparently they’re doing a feature on him in the
Westcott Gazette
.’

What next I wondered – Southern TV? National coverage? Then suddenly all went quiet. No further news.

‘No, he hasn’t phoned for the last couple of days,’ Beryl told me.

So I assumed all was well and that the wound had healed. No doubt Leo was back in the wild stalking the Downs. So it was purely by accident that I bumped into the Major in the local supermarket when I was trying to decide on which ready meal to take back to Mrs Paget’s.

I had to ask. ‘So how’s Leo?’

‘Well … he’s OK,’ whispered the Major, a measure of doubt in his voice. ‘Only …’ he faltered, looking round as if afraid of being overheard before beckoning me across to a less crowded spot by the freezer compartment. ‘Between you and me, he seems to have gone a bit soft in the head.’

‘Really? In what way?’

‘Well, he’s just not the same cat. Lost all that wildness. Always indoors now, forever purring round my ankles, looking for his next bowl of fresh fish.’ The hooded blue eyes gave me one of their customary stares. But there was a twinkle in them, a hint of humour. ‘I don’t consider him a Leo any more. So I’ve renamed him.’ He gave another surreptitious look round before continuing. ‘He’s now called “Cuddles”.’ With that, he gave a short harrumph, threw a couple of packs of frozen coley in his basket and hobbled off.

I gave a sigh of relief. It was fortunate I’d been able to catch and treat the cat. With any luck there wouldn’t be a repeat performance. I reached out to tap a shelf. It was metal.

Damn! Now where was there a wooden one?

O
ne Friday evening, surgery was particularly hectic. Beryl apologised several times as I came through from my consulting room only to find she’d squeezed in yet another person to see. Even with the newly extended time I was allowed in Mrs Paget’s kitchen, hopes of ever getting back there to pop a lasagne or lamb stew-with-dumplings-for-one in the microwave rapidly faded. Crystal was away for the day – some advanced orthopaedics course. No doubt she’d return brimming with new techniques for joint surgery putting my nose well and truly out of it – joint-wise that is.

Eric was on duty with me. He was just as busy, with a constant stream in and out of his consulting room. When the last animal was ushered out, Eric rolled into the office with far less customary bounce than usual and collapsed in a chair like a crumpled carrier bag.

‘’Struth,’ he declared, mopping his glistening forehead with a swab. ‘What did we do to deserve that, I wonder? Seemed like all of Westcott’s pets suddenly decided to take a sickie.’ He gave me a rueful grin. ‘Still, you coped OK, did you?’

‘Just about,’ I replied, my stomach giving a loud rumble, reminding me it was looking for its ready meal. Some hope. It was way past 7.30pm. Mrs Paget’s kitchen would now be out of bounds.

‘Fancy a quick jar?’ he added. ‘Mandy’s taking the phone tonight. I’ll tell her we’re just across the road. She knows I’m on duty so she can get me on my mobile. Come on. We both need to unwind a bit.’ He paused and gave me an encouraging look, one eyebrow curled. ‘So what do you say?’

Five minutes later saw us sitting round a table in the Woolpack, each with a lager and a large Cornish pasty in front of us. The pub was situated a stone’s throw from Prospect House on the other side of what was euphemistically called ‘The Green’. ‘Green’ was a bit of a misnomer for this worn patch of parkland, now parched and burnt brown with the blistering summer we were having and coupled with a hosepipe ban – the only sprinkling it was getting was from the dogs peeing on it. The Green was bordered on three sides by busy roads, constantly choked with traffic, so taking the air usually meant taking in lungfuls of fumes. The Woolpack’s sign of a shepherd with a lamb slung over his shoulder harked back to the days when sheep still grazed at its front door and shepherds still ploughed in for their ploughman’s. Now the only reference to ‘shepherds’ was with the ‘pie’ on the menu board and any mention of ‘fleece’ was in reference to the exorbitant bar prices.

Eric took a hearty swig of his lager and wiped his lips free of foam before saying, ‘So … Paul. You’ve settled in, eh?’

I too took a measured mouthful before attempting to reply. ‘Er … yes … fine.’ I wasn’t sure how to play this. As far as I could judge, Eric seemed a very affable sort of guy; quite down-to-earth, no airs or graces, ready to call a spade a spade. So if I had any grumbles, he’d be prepared to listen. But to act on them? There I wasn’t so sure. After all, he was married to Crystal, and she ruled the roost at Prospect House as far as I could see, both professionally and, no doubt, privately. I couldn’t imagine anything ever happening without her say-so. Sharpe by name and sharp by nature. No blunt knives in her drawers.

‘So there’s nothing on your mind? Nothing you’d like to discuss?’

‘Well …’ I took another sip. Come on, Paul. You don’t need Dutch courage. Spit it out. So I did. ‘When’s the practice cottage likely to become available?’

‘Ah yes – Willow Wren. Sorry about that. I know it was promised you but there’s been a bit of a problem with the current tenant. Crystal’s sorting it out. Best to have a word with her about it.’

So I’d be a little longer in Mrs Paget’s hands, I thought. Oh well. I’d just have to grit my teeth. I only wished that chihuahua of hers would grit his and stop going for my ankles whenever I stepped out of my room.

Talking of teeth, I was suddenly conscious of some rather large gnashers that were being exposed at a level with my knee. They belonged to a very large, very fat, very friendly yellow Labrador who was grinning at me, lips curled back, exposing a fine set of canines while her eyes were fixated on the pasty from which I was just about to take a bite.

‘Well hello, Peggy,’ exclaimed Eric with exaggerated enthusiasm, leaning across to fondle her ears vigorously, obviously thankful for the distraction. She sat down heavily and raised a paw which Eric shook. ‘There’s my girl.’

Peggy’s grin seemed to expand, her lips curling back even more.

Eric turned to me. ‘It’s her way of asking for titbits.’

Perhaps I should employ her technique in order to get the practice cottage, I thought. Actually, I quite liked the idea of kneeling in front of Crystal with my tail wagging. Meanwhile, it was just grin and bear for me. ‘Doesn’t look as if she needs any,’ I said.

Peggy was huge – obese. She sat there, on fat, bulging haunches, one back leg splayed out, exposing rolls of belly fat.

‘Couldn’t agree more, but it’s her party piece. The grinning. Isn’t it, girl?’ Eric broke off a portion of his pasty and offered it to her. It was snatched with alacrity and barely touched the sides of her throat as it was swallowed. Another grin followed.

‘You shouldn’t be doing that, Eric,’ said a voice over my shoulder. ‘You’re always telling me she should be on a diet.’

‘I know … I know,’ he said, hastily dropping the next bit of pasty he’d intended giving Peggy and looking up.

I twisted in my seat to find a tall, heavily-built woman standing behind me with a tray in her hand. She had frizzy blonde hair with dark roots and broad, arched brows like drawn bows from under which she was shooting arrow-like looks at Eric.

‘And you a vet.’ The woman tutted, but in an amiable way. She levered herself round our table. Not an easy task as space was limited and amply filled by her ample posterior. She looked at me. ‘Your friend here is always telling me I should get some weight off.’

For a moment I thought she was referring to herself as the broad hips, thighs, biceps and chest highlighted by the pink T-shirt and contour-hugging cotton trousers she was wearing suggested that calorie counts didn’t figure in her life; and if they did, then she was a poor mathematician.

But I realised she was referring to Peggy when she bent over to give the Labrador a pat as Eric introduced her – Brenda. She and her husband, Bernie, I was told, were the Woolpack’s proprietors.

‘Fat chance of you losing weight, eh, Peggy?’ Brenda went on to say. ‘Not with the likes of Eric slipping you titbits.’

Fat chance. Hmm. An unfortunate choice of words, I thought, in the circumstances. But it was chance, fat or otherwise, that got me landed with Peggy’s pounds not three days later.

Beryl was in one of her black moods – dress-wise and mentally. As usual, she was wearing black, her raven hair stiff with lacquer; she clicked her scarlet nails over the computer keyboard, muttering softly to herself like a
Macbeth
witch incanting spells over a steaming cauldron. Black magic filled the air – and not of the chocolate box variety. Nothing sweet about Beryl today.

My cheery ‘Good morning, Beryl’ was met with a sour look and a downcast eye – while her glass one swivelled to the ceiling.

‘You’ve a visit booked later this morning,’ she said gruffly. Bubble … bubble … Beryl and trouble.

I raised an eyebrow, which she was quick to spot.

‘Couldn’t get them to come in. Besides, it’s only over the road. The Woolpack.’ The disapproval slurped out. I knew from Eric that, although she was not teetotal – a port and lemon went down very nicely, thank you, especially if someone else was paying for it – she showed her disapproval at the liquid refreshment that Eric occasionally indulged in at lunchtimes over at the Woolpack. He’d once returned reeking of alcohol. ‘Just as well you’re not operating this afternoon,’ she’d said. ‘You could anaesthetise a Great Dane with one breath.’

‘Is it Peggy?’ I asked.

She gave a curt nod. ‘The Adams’ Labrador. Yes. She’s off her legs and they can’t move her. Not surprised … she’s so overweight. Takes after her owners.’ Stir … stir …

Mind you, she was right about the Adams.

Bernie Adams introduced himself when I eventually got over to the pub. He was as massive as his wife – big, beefy, barrel-chested, with a flat pan of a face and large protruding ears that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Toby Jug. He was ’ale and hearty in every sense. A typical ‘mine host’.

‘Brenda’s upstairs with Peggy now,’ he said, ushering me in through the pub’s bar. The stairs were steep and narrow but only one flight, so no scaling of Everest – but to judge from the shortness of breath it provoked in Bernie, I half expected a Sherpa guide and a cylinder of oxygen to be waiting on the landing. How on earth did Peggy, with all her pounds, manage to climb up and down?