Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [106]
‘Hurry, hurry,’ muttered the Stockwells as they eased themselves slowly round Myrtle’s rump and, with much huffing and puffing, folded the cow’s back legs under her abdomen.
‘Good … now let’s try rolling her into a sitting position.’ This proved easy to do now Myrtle had her legs in their natural position. She still remained bloated, especially her left flank, which stuck out like a large, brown bubble about to burst. Rosie saw me looking.
‘Stick ’er now, will you?’ she queried.
‘I’m in no hurry to,’ I replied.
‘That makes a change then,’ chortled Madge, digging her sister in the ribs.
But it was true; I wasn’t in any hurry. Myrtle needed time to get rid of the build-up of stomach gases herself if at all possible. She shuffled her feet more firmly under her as a deep rumble echoed from the depths of her belly, vibrated up her neck and erupted in a loud belch. I never thought I’d be so delighted at hearing such a sound – even if it did come with the stench of fermented grass which had the three of us back away, hands to our faces. Two more belches with their attendant marsh gas smell wafted from her.
‘Looks as if vet won’t have to stick ’er after all,’ said Rosie, the muffled words behind the hand still covering her face tinged with disappointment.
As ‘vet’, I explained that Myrtle needed more calcium solution under the skin to ensure complete recovery, and proceeded to drain in the contents of the second bottle. Myrtle’s head was now raised, swaying from side to side, and her eyeballs had rotated back to normal and were beginning to focus.
‘She should be up in an hour or so with no ill effects,’ I said.
‘There’s no hurry,’ said Madge.
‘None at all,’ said her sister, ‘is there, Madge?’ she added, turning to her.
‘That’s what I said, Rosie. None at all.’
‘No, that’s what I said.’
“‘None at all”, you said.’
‘Exactly. So there’s no hurry.’
‘None at all.’
I left them to it. My task had been completed – after all was said and done. Whatever was said, I’d said so. Blimey, this was catching.
Back in the twenty-first century, I soon forgot about the Stockwells, caught up in the hustle and bustle of daily life. Even if it was a life without Lucy. She continued to keep her distance, spending more and more time at Prospect House, never keen to discuss our faltering relationship. ‘I need space’ was her only comment when I tried broaching the subject.
It was a Sunday night – that Ovaltine-smooth time when half-read newspapers blend with comforting period dramas on the box to ensure the evening goes with a soothing rustle. Outside it was a wild, blowy night, with torrential rain. Not a night to be called out. I was on duty, though, and I’d earlier tempted fate by treating myself to a take-away curry from a new Indian restaurant that had just opened in Ashton. With the curry now eaten, I was about to curl up in front of the fire I’d lit, ready to watch TV, when the phone rang. I pushed Nelson off my lap – he, for the moment, being my Lucy-substitute in the cuddle stakes – and with a sigh lifted the receiver. It was Lucy at the hospital.
‘I’ve just had a call from the police,’ she said.
Curry or no curry, a hot flush coursed through me.
‘A DC Jefferies from Chawcombe … he needs to speak to a vet. Here’s his number.’
Before I could say anything, she’d rattled off the number and put the phone down on me. Blazing birianis … what had I done to deserve this?
The constable was most apologetic. ‘Thanks for calling back,’ he said, ‘but we’ve got a bit of a problem with a cow stuck in a gravel pit.’ My guts contracted in hot spasms as he went on to explain. Thank God I hadn’t chosen the vindaloo.
‘Couldn’t you get the owners to help?’ I asked, desperate to find some way of wriggling out of what sounded like a nightmarish situation.
‘They’re there now, sir … the Miss Stockwells. They haven’t said much, just that someone must have left their gate open. That’s how the cow got out.