Authors: Malcolm D Welshman
I didn’t wait to find out, leaving Beryl to sort out the situation while I melted back into my dingy consulting room made more dingy by a Virginia creeper growing out-of-control round the window. Still, it helped to block the view of the adjacent exercise yard which, I was to discover, always smelt foul even though constantly being doused down with disinfectant. The malodorous air constantly permeated the room and made clients sniff and eye me suspiciously as soon as they entered.
When Miss McEwan’s records flashed up on the computer screen I scrolled down through her details. OK – she owned a Collie called Ben. He seemed to have a long clinical history. It went on for pages, then abruptly stopped six months ago. Put to sleep with terminal cancer. Oh dear. But then maybe this Cedric I was about to see was his replacement? A sweet new puppy requiring his vaccinations?
I jumped at the sound of metal crashing into the door.
‘Do be careful, dear. You’ll upset Cedric,’ trilled Miss McEwan as Lucy, her face beetroot, wisps of hair floating free from her pony-tail, struggled in, arms wide apart, hands clutching the sides of a large, blue metallic bird cage, covered in a red tartan blanket matching Miss McEwan’s cape.
‘Meet Cedric,’ gasped Lucy. ‘If you need any help just shout.’ She gave me a shy smile and then slipped out to leave me with Miss McEwan’s coal-black eyes staring out from a face with the complexion of a once-used tissue. She gave a sniff and looked round as if wondering where the smell was coming from before saying, ‘Cedric’s very special, you know.’
I slid the blanket off the cage and found myself being stared at by another set of coal-black eyes. Only these belonged to a bird a little larger than a blackbird and with bright yellow wattles. It hopped along the perch towards me, cocked his head and fixed me with a beady look.
Miss McEwan edged along the consulting table and did the same. ‘He’s very special,’ she repeated, turning to the bird. ‘Aren’t you, Cedric?’
The bird bobbed up and down and then, in Miss McEwan’s precise tone of voice, said, ‘Cedric’s special.’
Miss McEwan gave a high-pitched tinkle of a laugh. ‘Yes, you are, pet. Let’s hope this vet knows how to treat mynahs.’
I didn’t actually. We briefly covered the workings of a chicken at Veterinary College and I once poked a dead blackbird I’d found on my parent’s lawn; hardly the stuff of avian medicine. The nearest I’d got to operating on a bird was pulling the giblets out of an oven-ready chicken. Cedric gave me a startled look and rapidly hopped away.
Miss McEwan addressed me. ‘They’re not like cats or dogs, you know.’
I did know. Five years of veterinary training had at least taught me that. I took a deep breath and rather pompously said, ‘I am familiar with the avian species.’ I could have added, ‘… roasted at gas mark 6 with sage and onion stuffing.’ But somehow I thought Miss McEwan would find the comment in poor taste. So I tried to be tactful. ‘You say his name’s Cedric?’
‘Ask him,’ shrilled Miss McEwan.
‘Sorry?’
‘Ask him. Go on. He wouldn’t mind. It’s his party piece.’
I groaned inwardly. This was all I needed – a tête-à-tête with a mynah bird. But maybe this was all part of establishing a good rapport with clients. A new learning curve for me. So I turned to his cage and cleared my throat. ‘What’s your name?’ I said.
The bird bounced back and forth along the perch, clearly delighted at being spoken to. But he didn’t reply.
‘Ask him again,’ urged Miss McEwan. She saw me hesitate. ‘Go on. Ask him.’
I felt a tic throb in my forehead. This was getting silly. But such was Miss McEwan’s insistence I felt obliged to obey. ‘What’s your name?’
‘What’s your name?’ echoed Cedric in a perfect imitation of Miss McEwan’s voice, the tone so strident I almost felt compelled to answer.
‘Go on, tell him,’ shrieked Miss McEwan, hopping from one foot to another, her cape flapping wildly round her shoulders.
‘Paul Mitchell.’
‘My name’s Cedric,’ said the mynah with a manic cackle.
Miss McEwan also began to laugh, a bell-like peal of laughter that rolled round the room. Cedric, mimicking his bouncing owner, jumped up and down emitting a series of piercing whistles.
Suddenly, the door swung open and Eric popped his head round, grimacing at the noise. ‘Everything all right, Paul?’
‘Yes … yes … ’ I seethed, throwing the blanket back over the cage. There was a deathly silence followed by a muffled raspberry.
‘Very well then. I’ll let you get on with it,’ said Eric, swiftly withdrawing.
‘Dear me. Cedric’s a card and no mistake,’ sniffed Miss McEwan, snatching a tissue from the folds of her cape to dab each corner of her eyes. The scent of lavender infused the room. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without him.’
‘So what’s the problem?’ I asked tersely.
Miss McEwan snapped to attention and explained. Over the last month Cedric had been pecking at his tail. Once or twice she’d found spots of blood on the floor of his cage and realised something must be irritating him. ‘Of course, I keep telling him to stop but all he does is mimic me.’
From under the blanket came a muffled ‘Stop it’.
‘See what I mean.’
I nodded. ‘Best if we take a look.’ As I removed the blanket again, Cedric cocked his head and gave a wolf whistle. He gave another startled whistle as I winkled him out of the cage, his head pinned between my index and third finger, my other fingers curled over his wings. Feeling down his back, I discovered a distinct lump over the base of his tail. Parting the feathers, the lesion was obvious. A large, raised, raw area. His preening gland – the gland used to oil and keep a bird’s feathers well groomed. I slid Cedric back into the cage and he flapped on to his perch with an indignant squawk. I closed the door and turned to Miss McEwan.
‘There’s a problem with his preening gland. Either an infection or …’ I hesitated not wishing to alarm her unduly. But it had to be said. ‘It could be a tumour.’
Miss McEwan gripped the edge of the consulting table, her bony knuckles blanched. Her voice dropped to a soft twitter. ‘Oh dear. That sounds rather serious. Can anything be done about it?’
I gave a slight shrug and tried to inject some confidence in my reply. ‘The gland can be removed. But it would mean major surgery.’
Miss McEwan peered into the cage. ‘Oh dear me … dear me … my poor Cedric.’
The mynah cocked his head. ‘Poor Cedric,’ he replied, his tone solemn.
I explained that we had to do something otherwise Cedric would continue to peck at the gland and make the problem worse. I was in full flow, sounding confident, sounding sure of my facts, when Miss McEwan interrupted me.
‘Have you operated on a bird before?’
Crash. I was instantly floored. I could feel myself going bright red. Me? A new graduate. Operated on a bird? My hesitation was enough for the wily old bird in front of me.
‘You haven’t, have you?’
I quickly reassured her that Cedric would be in the best possible hands. Dr Crystal Sharpe’s hands to be precise. She of cutting fame, an expert in all things surgical. I just prayed an Indian Hill mynah’s rear end came within that remit. Miss McEwan was relieved when I told her.
‘Could I leave Cedric with you now then,’ she went on. ‘It would be much easier than taking the cage all the way home and then back again. What with these …’ Her hands did their hallelujah wave again.
Oh Lord. Just what was I letting myself in for?
The rest of the morning was punctuated by a piercing monologue echoing up from the ward as Cedric repeatedly shrieked, ‘What’s your name? My name’s Cedric.’
Mandy was very put out that I’d booked an operation for later that day without first having consulted her. ‘Really, Paul. It’s not an emergency. It could have waited.’ She stood there, arms folded over her generous bosom. Her damson eyes flashed. She was cross. Oh dear, I had sinned – a naughty novice in her nunnery. She frowned as Cedric let rip with an unholy raspberry. At least he seemed to be on my side. ‘So what time do you propose doing it?’
I opened my mouth but she butted in before I had a chance to say anything. ‘I suggest two o’clock. Crystal will have finished her list by then.’ She looked up from the ops book, pen poised over the page. ‘OK?’
‘Er … well … I was rather hoping Crystal might do it.’
Mandy straightened up. ‘Crystal?’ The name hung in the air. Holy Mary, Mother of God. What had I said?
‘Yes, Crystal,’ I faltered, the words a mere whisper. Her disgusted look made me feel as if she’d discovered some dirty habit of mine. I fought the urge to genuflect. Oh me of little faith in myself.
‘I hardly think so,’ said Mandy in a very superior (no trace of mother in it) tone of voice. She scribbled my initials in the book and marched away with a brisk snap of her uniform. Did she know something I didn’t? Apparently so.
When Crystal returned from her visit to Lady Derwent, I broached the subject. She planted a hand firmly on my shoulder, fixed me with her steely blue eyes and said in her precise, clipped voice, ‘There’s one thing you have to learn here, Paul. You follow through your own cases. I’m sure it’s something you’d wish to do anyway.’ The hand stayed clamped to my shoulder. ‘Am I right?’
‘Well, it’s just that I thought …’
The hand dug in tighter.
‘Yes, of course.’
The hand relaxed. ‘Good. See it as a challenge.’
I saw it as a potential disaster.
At 2.05pm, I was in the operating room, gowned up, boots on and, despite the warmth of the room, shivering. When Lucy clanged in with the cage, Mandy swept in from the prep room and stopped her from placing it on her altar (operating table). ‘Not on my nice clean top, thank you very much,’ she said and, pointing to an adjacent trolley, added, ‘Put it there.’
Lucy grimaced. Hello … hello … did I sense a little antagonism between these two?
‘What’s your name?’ shrieked Cedric unperturbed by Mandy’s dismissive manner – though Lucy seemed a trifle ruffled.
She raised her eyebrows at me and whispered, ‘Good luck,’ before quietly slipping out.
‘Now,’ said Mandy briskly. ‘I’ve sterilized all the instruments I think you’ll need.’ She waved at the operating trolley.
Looking lost in the centre of a vast, green drape was a small pile of instruments consisting of a tiny pair of scissors, scalpel, fine eyebrow tweezers and some forceps normally used for eye operations.
Mandy pulled the anaesthetic trolley round to the side of the table and, from the labyrinth of valves, bottles and pipes, plucked out a narrow black tube which ended in a rubber cone. She snaked it on to the table and fastened it down with a sandbag, checked the level of halothane, adjusted the valve setting slightly and then declared herself ready to start.
I quickly looked round the room to make sure all the windows and doors were closed.
‘I’ve already checked,’ said Mandy.
Grrrr … I picked up a towel and turned to the cage. Opening the door, I pounced on Cedric, enfolded him in one swoop, and scooped out the wriggling bundle.
‘My name’s Cedric,’ he spluttered as I levered his head out of the towel and Mandy plunged the cone over his beak.
‘Sleepy-byes for you, Cedric,’ she said in a no-nonsense tone of voice – a tone I was to become all too familiar with over the subsequent months. She turned up the flow of the halothane-oxygen mixture with a deft twist of the valve.
I felt Cedric’s chest heaving through the towel. There was a rattle of beak against cone as he shook his head, fighting against the anaesthetic. Suddenly, he went still. I relaxed my grip, uncertain as to what was happening. Then in Miss McEwan’s precise, tinkling voice, Cedric exclaimed, ‘You’re a dirty dick.’
I just collapsed with laughter. In doing so my grip on the towel slackened. It was enough. Cedric wriggled free and with ruffled black feathers sticking out in all directions, hopped across the operating table, paused, then sprung on to the instruments where he promptly lifted his tail and relieved himself.
Mandy was far from amused; she didn’t see the funny side of it at all. ‘Oh really, Paul,’ she snapped, turning off the anaesthetic machine while I tried to wipe the smile off my face.
With a quavery wolf-whistle, Cedric lurched off the trolley and skidded on to the floor where he waddled like a pickled duck towards the prep room. Fighting back another wave of giggles, I ran round the ops table, towel in hand, and pinned him down. But not before he’d left a liquid trail behind him.
‘What a mess,’ declared Mandy, her face like a slab of unleavened dough, not a crack of a smile evident.
A muffled raspberry made me start quaking again. I squeezed my lips together desperate not to let a snort of laughter escape as, under Mandy’s steely gaze, I popped Cedric back in his cage. I was only allowed to start the operation again once everything had been mopped down, disinfected and the instruments re-sterilized.
‘OK, matey,’ I declared. ‘Second time lucky.’ With Cedric’s head this time safely secured in the cone, he slipped into unconsciousness with a series of sleepy wolf-whistles.
Mandy then whisked the towel away, stretched him out, taped down his wings and deftly plucked the feathers from around the preening gland. I was actually grateful for her obvious expertise. At least someone knew what they were doing. When she’d finished, she stepped back. ‘You can start now,’ she instructed.