Notso Hotso - Anne Fine [3]
towards the door. Lord knows, I’m no slave to glamour. Ours is a mongrel world, and cross-breeds like myself know only too well that judging by appearances can all too easily lead to –
Hang on a bit! What was this?
Miss Sneak-in-My-Room-and-I’ll-Roast-You had thrown herself on to
her knees at my side. She had her arms around my neck, and she was practically in tears herself.
‘Oh, Anthony! You poor lamb! You’re in misery, aren’t you? You’re actually whimpering. Oh, you poor darling.’
And suddenly she’s on the phone. ‘No!’ she’s telling the vet’s assistant. ‘Thursday won’t do. The poor creature’s in agony. I don’t care how many people you have waiting. This is an emergency, and I’m bringing him now.’
Next thing I know, I’m standing trembling on the examination table, and Delia Massingpole B.VSc., M.R.C.VS., is peering at me through a little lens.
‘Yes, very nasty. It must itch a lot.’
After five years in vet school? This, I could tell her for free! But I just stood there, shedding quietly, while she looks some more.
Then out it comes. I couldn’t bring myself to listen to the details, so, to this day, I’m not quite sure whether she said it was scabies masquerading as mange with a little touch of eczema, or mangy eczema with a faint veneer of scabies, or all three at once. All I know is, I tried to keep my head high and ponder inner beauty.
Suddenly Ms Massingpole’s handing over a giant tub of gloopy-looking yellow cream. ‘This should do the trick.’
Lady Lavender-Room-Haze unscrews the lid and sniffs. ‘It doesn’t smell very nice.’
Hell-oo! I’m thinking. The stuff’s not supposed to go in your bath. Or on your face. It’s supposed to go on my bottom. And just so long as it does the trick, like Vet Massingpole thinks, things are peachy by me.
Miss Shed-on-My-Rugs-and-I’ll-Kill-You is still looking dubious. ‘How am I supposed to rub it on him?’
I’ll sit still, I am promising silently. I will sit still.
But that’s not what she’s worrying about. ‘This stuff’s so tacky, I’ll never get it out from under my fingernails.’
Oh, deary me! I hope you know I’m practically falling off the table here, from sheer anxiety and grief on her behalf. Good heavens! Maybe she’d better take me home straight away, and let me scratch myself bald, rather than risk getting even a dab of icky, nasty-smelling yellow stuff under one of her perfect Sugar Frost talons.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ said First-in-Command Massingpole. ‘We’ll shave him.’
Well, whose side’s she on?
I stare.
And so does Mrs T. ‘Shave him?’
‘Yes. It’s a much better idea.’ (I’m frozen with horror. She’s plugging in the razor.) ‘We’ll shave the fur that’s
left. That way, the cream will rub in better. The problem will go away faster. And all his fur will grow back soon enough.’
Oh, sure! A primrose plan!
For her.
I turn my head to the lady who first
picked me out from behind bars; who first decided I would be an asset to her family; who bought me my first ever real dog bed and my bright red plastic bowl; who came down fifteen times on my first night, to comfort and reassure me.
She loves me. I know it.
But guess what the weaselly traitress said to Butcher Massingpole?
‘Brilliant. Let’s do it!’
4: Talk About Tough
THEY WERE PITILESS, those ladies. I don’t think I’ve ever put up such a struggle, and I can’t remember ever losing a fight so fast.
Talk about tough. Milady Massingpole wielded the shaver like someone in a horror film you’re too young to watch, and, get this, threatened me with anaesthesia, if I kept wriggling!
And the Hand-Cream Queen pinned me down with her elbows. (I take as much care of my paws as the next pup, but really, these perfect fingernail worries of hers are truly getting out of hand.)
Brrrr.
Brrrr.
Brrrrrrrrrrr.
BRRRRRRRRR.
I certainly hope nobody ever does anything halfway as brutal to you. When they’d finished, the floor looked like