Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [100]
The twins darted forward and each of them straddled Cleo’s back leg, clinging on as if preparing themselves for a rodeo.
‘Oh, very well,’ said Crystal sounding far from enthusiastic.
I handed her the scalpel and backed away, but not too far. ‘Here goes then,’ she said, glancing round. ‘Hold on to your horses.’
Camels, Crystal, camels.
She palpated the sole once again. Cleo roared. Her thigh muscles trembled and bulged. But the two lads grimly held on, rocking up and down and from side to side.
Then in plunged the tip of the scalpel and out poured a fountain of pus. Cleo shrieked again. She wrenched her head round, trailing Kevin with her. She gave a massive kick. The boys bounced off … Crystal reeled back … my arms opened wide.
Ben and Barnaby fell into them.
By the time we had sorted ourselves out, Cleo had staggered to her feet and was standing, her sides heaving in and out like bellows, her head covered in sticky, green foam. But Kevin was still hanging on, dangling from her head rope.
‘Just hold on a mo’,’ said Crystal. ‘We need to give her a shot of antibiotics.’ The twins meanwhile had skipped round to the front of the camel, none the worse for their tumble, and were ready to distract Cleo again if necessary. But it seems we had knocked the wind out of her sails as she stood there, motionless, while Crystal plunged a massive dose of long-acting penicillin into her thigh.
‘One down and one to go I believe,’ said Cleo, slapping Cleo’s rump, clearly in her element, thoroughly enjoying herself.
Our next port of call was a large pen totally enclosed in mesh, fitted out with wooden perches, swings and tyres suspended from chains. It was clearly not kitted out for the likes of guinea pigs or rabbits, and was a bit OTT for budgerigars, so what was it for, I wondered?
Leading off the pen was a small tunnel, screened by a rubber flap, which gave access to a shed. It was from this shed that came a muffled volley of squeals and grunts.
‘Sounds as if Mitchell’s up to his old tricks again,’ said Crystal, striding over to the side of the shed and giving it a hefty thump.
I wondered what form my namesake would take: Mitch the meerkat … Mitch the mongoose … or Mitch the mouse? Oh, no, surely not Mitch the mouse. I cringed at the thought.
Fingers curled round the bottom of the flap and lifted it a fraction; a pair of yellow-grey eyes peered out.
Crystal thumped the shed wall again. ‘Come on out, big boy.’
Ah, this sounded more like it. Mitchell was a big boy, then – more of a mighty Mitch.
Crystal rattled the lock on the door. That did the trick; out shot a lanky-bodied monkey with ginger-brown fur and a long, straight tail, carried erect.
‘That’s Melinda,’ Kevin informed me.
She was closely followed by two more monkeys, one hugging a baby close to her chest.
‘Maureen and Mavis,’ I was told, ‘Mitch’s harem.’
Hmmmm. This was getting interesting. The star of the show was obviously a full-blooded male.
‘And here’s the beast himself,’ said Kevin, as a large, well-muscled monkey with a gleaming, gingery coat padded out through the tunnel. Well, now, what a fine fellow this Mitchell was. Yes, indeed.
He stood up on his back legs, stretching himself to his full height, exposing himself; in doing so, it was obvious why he was called a big boy. Wow … he put me to shame. He wiggled his eyebrows at us and gave a short staccato grunt before dropping on to all fours again to saunter nonchalantly into the pen.
The female with the baby gave a whimper of fear and made a dash for the tunnel. In a flash, Mitch leapt across and pounced on her back, sinking his teeth into her shoulder. She let out a scream and cowered in submission on the ground, rump in the air.
‘Hey! Hey! That’s enough of that,’ cried Kevin, emitting a shrill whistle and rattling the mesh.
Mitch let go, the female shooting into the shed while he glowered at us. He then sprang; he hit the mesh with a violent crash, gripped it with both hands and shook it, teeth bared in a malevolent grin.
‘Ah, you’re a right show-off,’ declared