Pets in a Pickle (25 page)

Whatever, today the tortoiseshell cat was showing even more interest in the garden than ever. Maybe it was just those leaves swirling around out there or perhaps she did want to escape. To date, I hadn’t let her out. There hadn’t seemed much point when she could hardly move. But maybe no harm could come from now letting her out on to the patio. Let it be a test run – or rather a test hobble.

‘Come on then, little one. We’ll give it a try.’ I opened one of the doors and she stiffly got to her feet and slowly limped on to the patio where she flopped down again in a pool of sunshine.

It was then I spotted the cat in the shrubbery – the broad head of a tom. A large, black tom with saucer-shaped, mint-green eyes … eyes that were fixed intently on the tortoiseshell cat. After a few minutes, he slipped from the bushes and padded up to her, his tail straight as a flag pole. He circled her, clearly puzzled as to why she didn’t get up to greet this fine gentleman who was paying his respects. But he behaved with impeccable manners and backed off to sit a few feet away and give his whiskers a perfunctory wash.

Having seen the tortoiseshell cat’s disdain of our three cats, I was surprised when she suddenly struggled to her feet and limped slowly over to him. Courteous to a fault, he stopped his ablutions and stood up. She drew nearer, their noses touched. A friendship was struck.

From that moment on, the little tortoiseshell improved mentally and physically. She showed much more interest in life. Whereas before, I had to go and find her, and entice her to eat, she now walked stiffly into the kitchen, rubbed herself against my legs and demanded her breakfast with a loud purr. She began to move about more easily, always eager to be let out, weather permitting, and was soon able to negotiate the steps from the patio on to the lawn.

The black cat continued to visit, his broad, beaming face suddenly appearing in the lower right-hand pane of the French windows where the little tortoiseshell began to wait for him, eager for his companionship.

By now, she’d gained as much use of her hind legs as she was likely to, the wasted muscles of her right leg the only sign of permanent damage. It meant she couldn’t jump on to my lap like she used to when she first visited Willow Wren; but now, even if I lifted her up, she never stayed long. She spent most of her time by the French windows as if biding her time until she was fit enough to leave us altogether. So the day she vanished came as no real surprise.

‘Just hope she’s OK,’ I said to Lucy, staring out at the blanket of soggy leaves which now covered the patio and lawn.

‘Don’t fret,’ replied Lucy. ‘She’s an independent sort. She wasn’t going to stay for ever.’ I was waiting for her to add ‘like me’, for there were echoes of Lucy in that cat’s character. I just prayed that she wouldn’t get it into her head to leave me as well.

The next day, I did begin to fret. The weather had turned atrocious. Heavy, black clouds scudded across a dismal, lowering, grey sky. Rain lashed down, pelting against the windows. Surely the little tortoiseshell would have been happier indoors, stretched out in front of the fire, enjoying the warmth, enjoying the regular meals – even if she didn’t have the black cat for company.

The black cat. It suddenly struck me, he hadn’t been seen for the last few days – ever since the tortoiseshell had gone missing. Yes, that black tom … I pictured him at the French window. Then another image came to mind: another black cat framed in a pane of glass. The cat in Major Fitzherbert’s greenhouse, Leo – or rather Cuddles, as he was now called. Could he be one and the same cat?

I was on the phone immediately.

‘Hello … Major Fitzherbert here,’ the familiar voice barked down the line.

‘Er … sorry to trouble you on a Sunday, Major. It’s Mr Mitchell here.’

‘Mitchell?’

‘The vet.’ I took a deep breath and started to explain. ‘So I’m wondering whether she’s turned up at your place,’ I concluded.

There was a pause followed by a deep-throated chuckle. ‘Well, young sir, I reckon she has. A slip of a thing has been keeping Cuddles company here these last couple of days. The two of them are snoozing in front of the fire this very minute. She fits your description so I guess she must be yours.’

The mention of ‘yours’ didn’t ring true somehow; she’d never really been mine. We’d never bonded together. I found myself explaining this to the Major and added, ‘She’s what you might call an independent sort and has never been at home here.’

The Major gave another throaty chuckle. ‘Just the sort of cat I admire. Still, she seems to have shacked up with Cuddles for the time being. What say we give them a chance together? Would you mind?’

Did I mind? Part of me said, ‘Yes, I do mind!’ while the other told me I was being selfish, too possessive, that I should let her go. The latter won.

I couldn’t help thinking the same about Lucy. As I climbed into bed that night and snuggled down next to her, it was still on my mind. Was I being too possessive about her as well? Too self-centred? Only thinking of my welfare, not hers … unwilling to let her go should she chose to do so.

It was Lucy who spoke first. ‘Paul … I’ve been thinking …’

I felt a knot tighten in my stomach.

‘That cat …’

‘What about her?’

‘You knew she’d never settle. That she’d never be yours.’

‘Well, yes, I did,’ I admitted. ‘How did you know?’

‘Think about it.’

I did and eased myself closer.

‘All the time you spent pulling her through the accident, never once did you think of giving her a name. That surely proves something. That she didn’t really belong. That she wasn’t yours.’

I nuzzled Lucy’s neck, felt her soft hair fall across my cheek, felt her warmth, breathed in her scent. She was right. The cat had always been just that – the little tortoiseshell cat. Never named … never mine.

‘But you’ve got a name, Luce,’ I whispered. ‘And I’d like you to be mine, all mine, and never leave me,’ I added, enfolding her in my arms.

‘Y
ou’re getting quite a reputation,’ remarked Mandy as I tied off the last stitch, the bitch spay completed. ‘Really?’ I replied. This sounded interesting. Perhaps Crystal had noticed I was becoming a dab hand at operating. All these spays and castrations making me sharp with the knife. Why, I could now winkle out an ovary in the shake of a lamb’s tail. Baaaah – so what? It wasn’t exactly cutting edge stuff – not in the sense of complicated surgery. That still tended to fall into Crystal’s hands. No slice of it came my way.

Mandy made a fuss of dabbing the minute trickle of blood that oozed from one corner of the wound before whipping off the spay cloths and disconnecting the endotracheal tube from the anaesthetic machine in her customary efficient manner.

‘Come on then,’ I urged, pulling off my surgical gloves, sweat showering out of them. ‘What’s this about a reputation?’

Mandy sprinkled some antibiotic powder along the line of the wound and covered it with a thin strip of cotton wool before looking up. ‘Seems you’ve become our bird expert.’

Oh … so that was it, was it? Paul Mitchell, the man you had to see if your Joey needed his bill trimmed or the canary her claws cut. Some reputation! I blamed it on Beryl; she was the one who kept pushing the birds on to me and then only because Eric and Crystal didn’t want to deal with them. The trend had started with Miss McEwan’s mynah and, as the summer flew past, so did the number of feathered patients that winged their way through my surgery.

Later that day, I was able to add one more to my ever-increasing flock.

‘Another budgie is it, Beryl?’ I asked.

‘Ooooh no. I’ve booked you in something much, much better than that,’ she said, crowing with glee and swinging back and forth on her stool to such an extent that I thought she’d become airborne any moment. ‘Mrs Smethurst’s got a cockatoo.’

And what a moth-eaten specimen Liza turned out to be.

‘Yes, I’m afraid she is a bit of a mess,’ apologised Mrs Smethurst, sliding the large parrot cage on to the consulting table.

‘Almost ready for the oven,’ I joked unwisely as the almost naked cockatoo waddled up and down her perch.

‘Everyone cracks that one,’ sighed Mrs Smethurst, ‘but it’s beyond a joke. Liza simply won’t stop pulling her feathers out. We’re getting quite desperate.’ Her pert nose gave a rabbit-like twitch.

The cockatoo raised her crest and bobbed her head at me. That head was still quite appealing with its white cheeks and crest feathers dusted with yellow. But the only other feathers remaining were the half-chewed ones on her wings and tail. In between, nothing – not a single feather to cover her nakedness. Just a sea of skin – grey, pimply and utterly repulsive.

‘So how long has she been feather plucking?’ I asked.

‘I guess it must be about three months now … ever since my sister went to Australia. Liza was hers, really.’

‘And how long had she owned her?’

There was another rabbit twitch of the nose. ‘Must have been at least four years. More likely five.’

‘And no problems during that time?’

‘None whatsoever. My sister adored the bird. They were seldom out of each other’s sight.’

‘I’d say that’s the most likely reason then. A psychosomatic disorder.’

Mrs Smethurst’s forehead furrowed in confusion.

I explained, ‘Liza’s missing your sister … she needs some distractions.’

She’s not the only one, I thought, averting my eyes from Mrs Smethurst’s denim shirt unbuttoned to her cleavage. I took a deep breath and expanded on my plan of action.

Over the ensuing weeks, Mrs Smethurst inundated Liza with plastic ducks and budgies; all fell easy prey to her beak. Lengths of chain were shortened by the hour, their links dextrously unpicked. A toy bell barely managed a tinkle before it cracked up.

‘Don’t know about the bell, but I could wring her neck,’ complained Mrs Smethurst as Liza continued to chew her feather stumps.

‘Try a mirror,’ I suggested.

One was placed next to Liza’s cage – useless. She just watched herself plucking, occasionally strutting up to the mirror to peer at her reflection as if to see what remaining feathers she could yank out.

‘Change the food and water hoppers around every day.’

Liza found herself climbing up to reach her peanuts, climbing down for some fruit, up again for a drink. No good.

‘Reposition her perches.’

They were raised, lowered, sloped to the right, sloped to the left … still she plucked.

‘Add some more.’

Extra were crammed in – different woods, smaller twigs, bigger branches. Her cage became like the Forest of Arden. It might have been ‘As She Liked It’ for Liza, with her in the centre of the glade merrily plucking, not a lyre, but the vestiges of her plumage. But if I could have struck a cord, it would have been one thrown over a bough of a Greenwood tree while I hummed a merry note as it was tied round Liza’s throat. The bird was driving me nuts.

‘Try putting her cage in a different place every day.’

‘Have done – even the bathroom. But those beady eyes staring at me. So embarrassing. Besides which, she started imitating the cistern, amongst other things.’ Mrs Smethurst’s cheeks flushed. ‘But it hasn’t done the slightest bit of good as you can see.’

Indeed, I could see. No good at all.

The facts were before me – bare facts. Liza waddled across her perch, raised the three remaining feathers on her crest and puffed out her chest in all its naked glory.

‘I’m afraid we’ll have to resort to an Elizabethan collar,’ I sighed. ‘She won’t like it though.’

‘No, she won’t,’ echoed Lucy as I showed her how to cut out a circle of plastic from some old X-ray film before she helped me loop it round Liza’s neck to form a cone. ‘See?’

The cockatoo craned her neck out and gave an indignant screech.

‘She’ll quieten down.’ I bundled Liza back into her cage. She rolled over and lay momentarily on her back, silent, her chest heaving, the pimply skin pulsating in time to her heart, her head out of sight in the cone. Suddenly, with a thrash of her legs, she flipped over, doing a complete somersault to land precisely in the same position again. With scarcely a pause, she did it again … and again.