Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [108]
Nothing, it seemed, as Frankie had everything under control. Even I was under the officer’s thumb – quite literally – as the wind suddenly whipped behind my knees knocking me off balance; I was rescued from toppling into the gravel pit again by Frankie’s manly arm thrown round my waist, pulling me close. It was enough to start tongues wagging.
‘Just watch it, sir. We don’t want to have to pull you out as well,’ the officer said, gently releasing me.
So I did just that – watch it.
I saw several firemen appear through the rain carrying shovels with which they proceeded to dig away the bank, dollops of yellow mud flying through the air, making a shallow – if slippery – gully down to the water’s edge.
I began to wonder what use I was here. Well, maybe the cow would need looking at if they ever got her out. Perhaps that’s what the Stockwells had in mind when they asked for me. Who knows? They hadn’t made themselves known since I’d arrived. What dumb bells.
It didn’t take long before the gully had been dug out.
Two firemen stumbled forward, clutching the ends of two canvas strops, as I heard one of the crew call them. One man was also holding what looked like a long, thin, metal ruler with a hook on the end of it. They waded in, gradually sinking until, waist deep, they were level with the cow, one each side. Waves of mud lapped along the edge of the pit as the man with the metal probe struggled to feed it under the cow’s belly.
‘Got it,’ cried the other fireman who had been groping for it in the mud. He drew the probe up, attached the strop to the hook and told his mate to start pulling it back under the cow. Once done, the process was repeated with the other strop; firemen up on the bank then secured the metal loops on the ends of the strops to a pulley which had been erected on an anchor post hammered into the ground. While the two firemen stayed with the cow, the rest of the crew, under Frankie’s guidance, got in position to winch the strops up. It was a bit like preparing for a tug-of-war.
‘OK, lads,’ shouted Frankie above the howl of the wind. ‘Shoulders to it … quick as you can. Hurry up.’
I saw one bell slowly turn to the other and whisper in her hood. One didn’t have to be quick off the mark to guess what she was saying.
Within seconds, the slack on the canvas ropes had been taken up. Within minutes, the cow had started to move from the centre of the gravel pit, shouts of encouragement coming from the two men with her. There was a loud glug as her body broke the surface of the mud as first a yellow neck, a shoulder and then a back appeared. All of a sudden, she was lying on the bank like a stranded yellow whale, her flanks heaving, her nostrils spurting clouds of steamy breath.
A cheer went up from the firemen.
‘Well done, lads,’ cried Frankie, turning to me to give me a hug, holding me a fraction longer than I thought necessary. Excuse me, but what was it with this guy? Were the studs in my ears giving out the wrong signals?
‘All yours now.’
‘What?’
‘The cow … she’s all yours.’
She is? I thought. Really? All mine. Standing there, watching the rescue had blotted out any thoughts as to what I was doing here – why I had been called in. It was as if the torrential rain had seeped into me, waterlogged my brain. I couldn’t think straight. Certainly I couldn’t stand straight as another gust of wind threatened to whirl me away had it not been for Frankie manhandling me again. Oh dear. I was beginning to feel swept off my feet. And I wasn’t that way inclined, was I? It was enough to get the wind up me in more ways than one.
It was the bells who brought me to my senses. They’d finally made a move and had edged down to the recumbent cow. I slithered across to my car, collected my black bag and squelched back over to join them.
‘Think it’s Dilly,’ said one.
‘Could be,’ said the other.
‘Reckon so,’ said the first.
‘Think you’re right,’ said the second.
Ding dong went the bells together. ‘We think it’s Dilly,’ I was told.
I heard the swish of uniform,