Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) (13 page)

I felt sure Mandy considered dealing with a dog’s teeth rather beneath her, hence her apparent willingness that afternoon to abdicate her role as my ops nurse and allow Lucy the privilege of setting up the descaler and having ready the thiopentone to anaesthetise Archie. Well, that was the plan … only Archie had other ideas. Hence the appearance of the harassed Lucy.

‘Paul,’ she said abruptly, ‘Archie’s proving impossible to catch.’

I had heard a few snarls emanating up from the ward and did wonder whether Archie had decided to be uncooperative. He must have been a real handful if he had thwarted the attempts of Lucy to catch him. She was a past master at dealing with difficult dogs, the bigger the better it seemed – the Rottweiler down whose throat she’d stuffed a crystal of washing soda after the dog had swallowed a Christmas stocking was a good example of her aptitude in dealing with well-muscled, strong dogs. It was almost as if they were a challenge – something that she relished.

Maybe I should build up my biceps and get her to relish me a bit more, I thought, as I followed her down to the ward, watching the curve of her slim hips, the neat calves encased in their dark stockings. I had an overwhelming desire to take a lunge at her in much the same way Archie had an overwhelming desire to do likewise as I approached his kennel, and he flung himself at the front and bared his teeth, biting the bars, growling. Of course, I’d have taken a much gentler approach in leaping on Lucy. But currently, with the way things were between us, such leapings were an unlikely event.

Stop this, Paul – concentrate on the present. A furious, white ball of foaming pooch. How different to the little dog wearing his red cape that Mr Henderson had dragged in that morning. Perhaps we really did have here a miniature Krypto, the Superdog, ready to save the planet from an alien force, which he clearly thought I was. Archie had been kennelled in one of the smaller, upper cages which served to house cats and small dogs prior to their operations or in-hospital treatment. So that snarling ball of spit was directly level with my face … and not a pretty sight.

‘Now, calm down little fella,’ I said in the smoothest of dulcet tones I could muster. Archie’s reaction was to lunge at the bars again and clamp one in his jaws with a growl worthy of a dog twice his size.

‘Come on, Archie, no one’s going to hurt you.’ OK, not quite the truth. The dog was going to have a jab and some of his teeth might get yanked out – but he wasn’t to know. But then, by the way he re-launched himself at the bars with another savage snarl, I suspect he thought I was a lying toad and one that required annihilation. I began to think, Star Trek-style, that a stun gun might have come in handy to give Archie a quick zap. Whizz – Pow –Bang. One dog flattened, ready for his dental.

‘Paul.’ It was Lucy, holding a less exotic means of overpowering Archie – a small syringeful of tranquillizer.

There was still the problem of actually catching the dog to administer the sedative; but Lucy had the answer to that in her other hand – a pair of thick, suede gauntlets, usually used for pinning down cats, but applicable to fur balls of the canine variety such as Archie.

With the cage door cautiously opened sufficiently for me to lever in one gauntleted hand, to which Archie immediately latched himself, my dulcet tones rapidly descended into a series of deep and heartfelt utterances – ‘Why, you little sod …’, ‘Damn you …’ and ‘Bloody well behave yourself …’ as I struggled to pin Archie in one corner, with his head squashed against the cage wall and, at the same time, grip one of his flailing back legs to enable Lucy to jab the sedative into his thigh. My voice was quite croaky once we had achieved our aim, and I had released the dog and slammed the door on him, before he had the chance to sink his teeth into my gauntlet again. Oh, what a charming little pooch! I just wondered how many teeth I could legitimately pull out once he was under. The lot? No, that would be unethical. Besides, such was his savagery, he would no doubt still be capable of giving me a severe gumming.

In the event, having carried his inert little body through to the preparation room once he’d succumbed to the sedative, given him his intravenous thiopentone, intubated him to prevent any spray from the descaler trickling into his windpipe, and set to work on descaling his teeth, of which it was only the back molars that were heavily encrusted with tartar, I found I could only justifiably extract two loose incisors. And although I gave his prominent canines a good prod and poke, they were firmly embedded in the gums with no trace of decay, so there was no way I could find a reason to whip them out. ‘So, matey,’ I said, removing a couple of soggy swabs from the back of his throat and sliding out the endotracheal tube, ‘you live to bite another day.’

Lucy grimaced. ‘Thank you,
Paul
,’ she said as, without looking up, she sponged blood-tinged water from around Archie’s muzzle. Not exactly a term of endearment with its undertone of sarcasm. But at least it was a response. A communication of sorts. It could only get better, surely?

It certainly couldn’t get much worse. We still hadn’t been speaking to each other for days – apart from the basic necessity to converse to ensure the day-to-day routines were maintained. The banalities of life. Oh dear, I was sounding really jaded. I realised I was clutching at straws to think that we could turn things round easily; and the place to start that process was certainly not a heart-to-heart over Archie’s gnashers. I acknowledged Lucy’s help with a polite ‘Thank you’ and peeled off my ops gown and mask – the latter worn to prevent infected droplets from the descaler being inhaled – washed my hands, put on my watch and, seeing there was time for a cup of tea before starting the afternoon’s consultations, slipped out into the corridor only to collide with Beryl, who had been lurking there.

‘Just on my way down for my afternoon ciggie,’ she explained in a guilty whisper, peering round my shoulder into the prep room where Lucy was just picking up Archie to take him back to his kennel. ‘Everything, OK?’ she added, frowning in Lucy’s direction.

‘Fine,’ I sighed. ‘Just fine.’

‘If you say so,’ replied Beryl, clearly not believing a word I’d said, and hurried on, muttering under her breath.

An hour later, Beryl was a changed woman – not in the sense that she had changed her clothes; mind you, even if she had done, it would probably have been into a similar outfit to the one she always wore – black trousers, black polo-neck sweater and black cardigan draped over her shoulders. No, it was a mood change, brought on by the arrival of Ernie Entwhistle and his new puppy.

I heard her as I walked down the short passageway between my consulting room and reception, passing to my right the door into the waiting room, behind which I could hear the murmur of voices, a plaintive miaow and the panting of a dog. ‘Oh, what a sweetie!’ I heard her say. ‘Just like you,’ I heard him reply. Yuck! I stuck my tongue out. Beryl’s response was, ‘Oh, Ernie, you old devil,’ accompanied by a girlish giggle which abruptly stopped as I swung through the door.

‘Mr Entwhistle’s just arrived,’ she said, her manner becoming instantly businesslike the moment she saw me.

‘I’m afraid I’m a bit late,’ apologised Mr Entwhistle, turning his attention to me as the collie pup he had on a lead pulled towards me, panting and pawing the air in a friendly greeting – what a contrast to Archie.

I awaited Beryl’s customary tart response; none was forthcoming. Instead, Mr Entwhistle got a beaming smile and a ‘That’s no problem … Mr Mitchell was running late anyway.’ She turned to me with what for Beryl was almost an angelic smile. ‘Isn’t that so, Paul?’

Running late? Was I? Well, maybe a little.

‘In fact, he’ll be able to see you now.’

I will?

‘Won’t you, Paul?’

‘Yes, Beryl.’

‘See you in a bit then,’ said Mr Entwhistle, giving Beryl a little wave with his fingers, before he followed me up the passage with his puppy skittering over the vinyl ahead of him.

From my computer in the consulting room, I read that the collie was just under three months old, called Bess, and was due for her first vaccination. Mr Entwhistle hoisted her onto the table where, with a double click of his fingers, she promptly sat down, only to spring up again as I approached to give her a check-over.

‘Bess,’ said Mr Entwhistle, quietly. ‘Sit.’

Bess sat. With a triple click of his fingers, she fidgeted on the table with her front paws, first lifting one, then the other. He clicked again. ‘Shake a paw with Mr Mitchell then?’ he said. But all I got was an excited lick of my fingers and a frenzied wag of her rump and tail. ‘She’ll learn soon enough,’ he added. And no doubt be as obedient as Ben, I thought – she’d soon be jumping onto the table, sitting and raising a leg for shake-a-paw to the same
finger-click
commands that Ben used to respond to.

Even without doing shake-a-paw, Bess remained sitting down and allowed me to give her the required vaccination, my needle slipping under the skin of her scruff without her uttering so much as a whimper.

‘Wish all my patients were as well behaved as Bess,’ I said, thinking of the wretched Archie who would be now coming round from his anaesthetic. Having signed Bess’s vaccination card, given Mr Entwhistle an information pack on diet, worming and subsequent boosters, there was one comment I wanted to finish with. It had been going through my mind as I’d been examining Bess. Her markings – the white patch over one side of the head and the white socks – uncannily resembled those of Mr Entwhistle’s previous collie. I hesitated, wondering whether it was prudent to remind Mr Entwhistle of Ben. Some owners felt uncomfortable, as if acquiring a new dog was somehow disloyal to the memory of their previous pet. But I decided to take the risk.

‘You know, I hope you don’t mind me saying,’ I said, scratching the puppy’s back, causing her to turn and lick me enthusiastically, ‘but Bess reminds me a lot of Ben.’

Mr Entwhistle’s face creased into a smile. ‘No surprise there, Mr Mitchell,’ he said, reaching down to give Bess a kiss on her head. ‘She’s Ben’s great-great-granddaughter.’

As I watched them walk back down the passage, I anticipated there was going to be a great bond develop there, with many potentially happy years to look forward to. When I heard Mr Entwhistle chortle out in reception and Beryl’s titter in response, I wondered whether the same might apply to them as well, although I doubted whether Beryl would jump into bed at the click of a finger. But then you never know.

‘What’s happened to my 5.50 appointment?’ I asked her when Mr Entwhistle finally took his leave with another little wave of his hand and a ‘See you soon’ directed at Beryl, who was simpering, her rounded cheeks flushed, as she hunched up her shoulders and gave a little wave of her scarlet talons in return.

‘Beryl, my 5.50 appointment – the cockatiel?’

‘Bye,’ said Beryl, softly, as Mr Entwhistle paused, hand on the door, and gave another little wave in her direction.

‘Bye,’ he whispered.

‘Bye,’ she echoed, her hand still in the air.

‘Beryl.’

‘What is it, Paul?’ she snapped, dropping her hand once Mr Entwhistle had finally left.

‘The cockatiel.’

‘Oh, the cockatiel. Mrs Tidy cancelled. I’ve rebooked it for tomorrow.’

‘You didn’t tell me.’

‘Didn’t I? Must have slipped my mind. Now, when is it you’re seeing Mr Entwhistle again?’

Clearly
he
hadn’t slipped her mind.

I quickly scooted down to the ward to check on Bo-Bo, who was staying in overnight. She’d come round from the operation OK but was obviously still weak; when she looked up and wagged her tail at me, albeit feebly, I felt she had a good chance of pulling through.

Meanwhile, Superman had flown in and carried off his Archie without anyone getting savaged in the process. I only wished someone would take me under their wing and fly me back to Willow Wren. As it was, with Lucy staying upstairs in the flat to provide emergency cover for that night, I had to transport myself back by more conventional means – the Vauxhall Estate provided by the practice – and microwave a ready-meal; then, later, with no means of clicking my fingers to have a well-trained companion jump to my command, eager to spring into bed with me, the only click heard that night was that of the bedroom light switch being turned off as I decided to turn in early. Probably best anyway, as I’d had quite a day … and I was out as soon as my head hit the pillow. I might not have slept so well had I known what was going to happen the next day with Mrs Tidy and her cockatiel.

I
was woken up at 5.50am by my neighbour’s cockatiel. It had been happening for several weeks now – Eleanor Venable’s Wilfred had taken to squawking first thing – with that ‘first thing’ getting earlier by the day, as spring advanced and first light dawned earlier and earlier. I was beginning to feel a little tense from a constant stream of disturbed nights. OK, had Lucy been curled up next to me, I could have slid my arms round her and lost my tensions immediately in those sleepy, dreamy moments of shared love instead of having to share them with the presence of Wilfred, whose regular interjections were enough to deflate the most hardened man’s ardour.

There again, to be honest, Wilfred was only a symptom, not the cause, of my lack of intimate relations since Lucy
was
usually curled up next to me – unless she was doing her rota of night duties over at Prospect House – only she was curled up in an ‘OFF LIMITS – KEEP AWAY’ sort of position most of the time – back to me, arms folded across her bosom, legs tightly together with knees drawn up. In her more mellow moments, when I suspected an advance from me might go unhindered, I did contemplate attempting a fairly straightforward manoeuvre – the ‘sidle-up-
and-gradually
-ease-into-unbridled-passion’ strategy – but the wodge of duvet she drove down between us suggested that that was the only stuffing I was likely to get if I attempted it. So I didn’t.

It was no surprise then, later that morning, when I staggered into work after a particularly strident awakening from Wilfred, to have Beryl say, ‘Christ, Paul, you look terrible. Did you get called out last night?’