Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [1]
No – I was a vet, a new graduate. And this was my first day in practice. To think I was about to unleash myself on someone’s unsuspecting pet. Quite sickening really – well, for the pet anyway. If he wasn’t already ill he soon would be if he knew this novice vet was about to prod and poke him. ‘Now, my lad, get a grip,’ I said to myself. ‘You’ve spent five years getting qualified for this moment. Now go for it. Show them what you’re made of.’
So I got a grip. Only the door knob in my hand at that precise moment failed to turn as my palm was too sweaty. I gripped harder, turned it and pushed at the waiting room door; it gave way and I tumbled into the room like a startled stoat. There was an immediate hush.
An aged spaniel gave me a rheumy-eyed stare. A chihuahua disgorged a lump of yellow froth on to its owner’s shoe. Two cats bared their teeth in silent hisses. Then the chihuahua, his throat unblocked, broke the silence with a barrage of staccato yaps. Taking this as his cue to join in, the elderly spaniel lifted his head and started howling at the fluorescent light above him; he was accompanied by a chorus of cats whose plaintive wails rolled round the room like a Mexican wave.
My feeble ‘Mr Kingston?’ was drowned on its first syllable.
I tried again, louder, flapping my hand as if trying to summon a taxi, not someone’s pet. ‘Mr Kingston?’
The spaniel stopped in mid howl, wagged his tail and pulled eagerly forward on his lead. His owner yanked him back. ‘Not you, stupid,’ he said.
A diminutive lady cowered in her chair, engulfed by a large wicker basket that wobbled on her knees. ‘Don’t worry,’ she crooned through the bars. ‘It’s not us. We’re going to see that nice lady vet, Dr Sharpe.’
A woman in the far corner poked the youth sitting next to her. ‘Hey, Darren, it’s us ’e wants.’
The youth continued to sit there, eyes closed, head swaying rhythmically from side to side, plugged in to an iPod clipped to the belt of his jeans. The woman pulled the plug out of one of his ears and smiled across at me. ‘Coming,’ she shouted.
The spaniel cocked his head and, with a grizzle of expectation, lunged towards her. The owner pulled him back with another ‘Not you, stupid’.
The woman kicked the youth’s shin and he shuffled to his feet with a scowl. Between them, they manoeuvred a large metal cage past the opaque-eyed spaniel who scrabbled forward again with an eager ‘woof’, only to be yanked back. Once in the consulting room, they heaved the cage on to the table. The youth quickly plugged himself in again and stood there sashaying from one foot to the other as rap music hissed faintly from his iPod.
‘Tell ’im, Darren,’ said the woman giving him another prod in his ribs. The teenager continued to nod his head and jiggle his hips.
I felt myself beginning to sway and nod in unison with him while at the same time giving him an encouraging smile. Maybe he thought I was taking the mickey because he suddenly stopped jiggling and spoke. ‘It’s Fred. He can’t eat proper.’
I pulled myself together. ‘Right. Let’s take a look at Fred then. See what the problem is.’ Whatever Fred was, he was going to be small fry. No big fish for me. But then perhaps I was expecting too much on my first day. Rather like last week.
My expectations when I’d turned up for the interview at Prospect House had been high. I’d felt in fine fettle. Full of the spirit of youth. Well, at least as much as any 25-year-old veterinary graduate of that year, 2004, could hold, with a large overdraft burning a hole in my pocket – reflecting the knee-holed jeans I normally wore – remnants of my cool image. Much better dressed that day, of course – open-necked white shirt, linen jacket, cream Chinos. I felt a bit Noël Cowardish. A mad dog? No. An Englishman? Yes. And certainly one out in the midday sun.
It was a glorious June afternoon and the weather certainly benefitted my first glimpse of Westcott-on-Sea. From what