Pets in a Pickle (37 page)

The Rymans, too, bore gifts. A pound of sausages for each of us – pork, of course. ‘Miss Piggy’s half-sister,’ Alex informed us cheerily. Beryl promptly dumped hers on me.

With the arrival of Miss Millichip, the Rymans and her had a topic of common interest; and like pigs round a trough, they tucked into the canapés with snorts and snuffles of enthusiasm as the merits of porcine husbandry were chewed over.

Beryl had invited Cynthia Paget who shunted me into a corner of reception and repeatedly poked me with a cocktail stick as she enumerated on the virtues of her new young lodger, down for the pantomime season, starring in Westcott’s production of
Aladdin
, alongside Francesca Cavendish.

‘He’s been on TV you know,’ Mrs Paget informed me. ‘Played a corpse in an episode of
Midsomer Murders
, so he tells me. Against stiff opposition for the part, too! Such a sweetie. I’ve allocated all of my freezer space to him. Can you imagine?’

Obviously, the chap had been rubbing Mrs Paget up the right way. Only hope she didn’t eventually get on his wick.

Reverend Charles and his wife also made a brief appearance on their way through to a carol service in the Festival Hall.

‘How’s Liza doing these days?’ I enquired above the hubbub of voices.

‘Sorry, didn’t quite catch that,’ said the vicar, cupping a hand round his left ear.

‘He’s getting a bit hard of hearing,’ confessed Mrs Venables. ‘I blame it on all the ear plugs he keeps shoving in his ears. Bound to cause some blockage.’

‘What’s that, dear?’

‘Mr Mitchell’s asking how Liza is.’

There was a shake of his head.

‘Liza,’ I said louder, leaning closer to him. ‘The cockatoo.’

Reverend Charles visibly flinched. He drew back and, with a trembling hand, snatched up a cheese and pineapple cocktail and popped it quickly in his mouth, snapping the stick between his fingers. Mrs Venables answered for him. ‘Oh, she’s fine, Mr Mitchell. Always in such good voice. Charles wouldn’t part with her for the world,’ she said, turning to him. ‘Would you, dear?’ she bellowed in his ear.

The vicar’s head shook even more violently and he seemed to cross himself. Or maybe he was just scratching his chest.

Eric bounced between clients, sloshing wine into glasses, thrusting peanuts at people, his bald head glowing, his red nose a challenge to any reindeer, Rudolf or otherwise.

Crystal looked divine in a soft suit of muted grey with a filigree of gold round her neck, matching the delicate earrings that hung from those wonderful petite ear lobes of hers. She glided demurely through the gathering, a nod here, a word there, a longer conversation with the Richardsons who handed her a horseshoe-shaped present which she accepted with gracious ease.

I caught Lucy’s eye; the look she threw me was a reminder of the problem we were still saddled with, and it quickly brought me down to earth with a bump. Felled … rather like what happened to the Christmas tree.

During afternoon surgery on Christmas Eve, there was an almighty crash from the waiting room accompanied by the wails of a cat and some frenzied yapping. I rushed through to find the tree had been toppled by a frightened cat trying to scale it and several dogs were scuttling through the pile of needles while a Boxer was cocking his leg against the upturned trunk.

‘Told you it was a bad idea,’ crowed Beryl from her perch in reception. In the mood I was in, that scrawny neck of hers was a sore temptation for being throttled.

With Mandy having already gone off duty, it was Lucy’s restraining hand, dustpan and brush in the other, that calmed me down with a softly whispered ‘Take no notice of her’. Between us, we righted the tree, ignoring the panting and slobbering dogs around us.

Once it was straightened and secured in its bucket, we stood back and looked at each other. Maybe that guy with the bleached, spiked hair had been right; maybe the decorations on this tree were allegorical – standing, as he said, for wounds being healed. Our wounds, the emotional wounds between Lucy and me. The look Lucy gave me suggested he’d been talking a load of rubbish – absolute trash. She was clearly still needled.

By the end of the afternoon’s consultations, I was frazzled. So much for heavenly bells ringing out with glad tidings, the practice phone just wouldn’t stop ringing with problems of neither comfort or joy.

A Mrs Moody brought in a poodle whose top-knot was tied with tinsel and red ribbon. ‘Lulu’s sliced her paw on a broken decoration,’ she said full of Christmas spirit … and gave a little burp to prove the point.

There followed a Jack Russell who had seized the chance to wolf down half-a-dozen chocolate angels and whose innards were now pinging like discordant heavenly harps; and the gas emanating from his rear end you could have put a match to and sent the little chap into orbit.

The last patient was a Persian brought in a cat basket festooned with gold ribbons and a tiny Father Christmas tied to the bars. She’d been caught gnawing at a defrosting turkey and was now being sick.

I wondered what Father Christmas had in store for me the next day – a lame Rudolph with an infected hoof?

‘And you, too,’ sighed Beryl as the last client wished us yet another ‘Happy Christmas’ and was ushered out of reception, the door being locked rapidly.

‘’Struth,’ declared Eric, rolling out of the other consulting room, sweating profusely. ‘Let’s hope for your sake that’s it for now and you have a quiet time over Christmas.’ He gave me a rueful look, his eyes flicking to Lucy who had appeared in the doorway. ‘The two of you, that is.’

‘Well, you can call on us any time should you run into difficulties,’ said Crystal, striding through from the office where she’d been finalising some accounts on the computer. ‘We’ll both be at home.’ She, too, glanced at Lucy. There was an awkward pause.

‘Well, anyway, happy Christmas everyone,’ said Beryl straining forward, presenting her cheek for a peck. We all obliged.

With final best wishes made, Beryl, Eric and Crystal piled out, leaving Lucy and me standing in the empty reception, only the muffled sound of a dog yapping forlornly in the ward to break the silence. And was it going to be just that? A silent night – a night wholly apart?

‘Well, Lucy,’ I said, hands in my pockets. ‘It’s your decision – you staying or coming back with me?’ I looked at those hazel eyes, the freckles on the snub nose, the fringe of hair across the brow. Standing in front of me was the best present I could possibly wish for – if only she’d let me wrap her in my arms.

But it seemed my wish wasn’t going to be granted; Lucy backed away. ‘I think it best if I stay here,’ she murmured, averting her eyes.

So be it, I thought. But what a crazy, crazy situation.

My mood was still foul on Christmas morning, and was matched by the frozen chicken I’d forgotten to take out of the freezer when I’d got back to Willow Wren the night before. It was standing stiffly on the draining board looking as frozen as I felt when the phone rang. The voice at the end of the line had a thick, Scottish accent and was full of doom and gloom. No Christmas spirit there.

‘What seems to be the problem? I asked trying to keep the chill out of my own voice once I’d confirmed that, yes, I was the vet on duty.

‘It’s Eve … our British Blue. She’s attacked our daughter’s moose.’

‘What?’ I replied, startled by the thought of some moose-savaging moggy stalking round Westcott like Godzilla.

‘A moose,’ repeated the voice dourly. ‘You know, like in
Tom and Jerry
.’

‘Oh, you mean a mouse.’

‘Aye, Mickey. Our daughter’s pet moose.’

I hadn’t much experience in dealing with mice. ‘Is he badly injured then?’

‘There’s only his tail left. She’s very upset.’

‘I’m sure she is,’ I said rather icily as I pondered over my chicken. ‘But you can always get your daughter another one,’ I added somewhat tactlessly.

‘Noooo,’ drawled the voice. ‘It’s Eve that’s upset … she swallowed Mickey … she’s now very poorly.’

‘You’d better bring her in then,’ I said jotting down his name before shoving the chicken on to a large plate and placing it on top of the fridge out of reach of Nelson, Queenie and Co, who had been circling my legs, looking hopeful.

I rang through to the hospital to warn Lucy that a Mr McBeath would be coming in. Her tone sounded as icy as the bird on the fridge. Talk about being given the cold shoulder.

My mood reflected that of the sick-looking British Blue that turned up on my consulting table half-an-hour later. She was true to her breed in appearance: dense, blue-grey coat, broad-chested, large, rounded head with coppery-orange eyes. Though I knew British Blues tended to be calm and collected, Eve was more laid-down than laid-back. She was distinctly off-colour. I was faced with a miserable moggy that lay on the table without moving, head down, eyes dull, saliva matting the fur round her mouth.

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’.