Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [114]
I gently stood Eve up, where she remained hunched, her short tail dropped. I began to palpate her abdomen, carefully kneading her between my fingers and thumb, pushing my hand towards her spine. A kidney was felt … her spleen slid past … loops of bowel … a lump. I edged my fingers back and felt again. Yes, a lump. I squeezed it cautiously and Eve groaned. I’d found Mickey’s mortal remains. The fact that Eve was being sick suggested that the mouse was causing a blockage. I explained this to Mr McBeath.
‘You do realise we may need to operate.’
‘Aye,’ he boomed.
‘But we’ll take an X-ray first if that’s OK with you.’
‘Aye.’
‘So we’ll hospitalise Eve now, all right?’
His ‘Aye’ reverberated in my ears.
‘OK, Lucy,’ I said, ‘let’s see what we’ve got here.’ I’d brought the cat through to the X-ray room where she’d been laid out, an X-ray plate under her. We were now ready to take a radiograph of Eve’s abdomen.
It all went very smoothly with Lucy working with quiet efficiency, not speaking a word unless spoken to. The radiograph showed a large, opaque mass in Eve’s intestinal tract.
‘See, look, even the mouse’s head is visible,’ I said, pointing to the off-white outline of the skull. And Lucy did look, her eyes all at once fired with interest.
‘Are you going to have to operate?’ she finally asked, turning the full force of her hazel eyes on me.
I drew a sharp breath between clenched teeth and said, ‘I’m afraid it looks like it. But it won’t be easy.’ I could see that not only would the operation be a tricky one but the cat was in a poor condition, dehydrated from the constant vomiting, so making her a higher risk.
Suddenly, Lucy’s hand was on my wrist. ‘It will be fine, Paul. You’ll see.’
It was, too. With autoclaved instruments to hand, a drip set up, the anaesthetic machine at the ready, Lucy ensured the operation went like clockwork. I was impressed with how well she coped, especially with no Mandy to oversee her. Our timely intervention ensured the mouse was removed in minutes; and Eve was soon ticking over in the ward, well on her way to recovery.
‘See. What did I tell you?’ murmured Lucy.
‘But it was only with your help,’ I said turning to her, my hand stretching out, about to brush her cheek when the phone started ringing.
‘I’ll answer it,’ said Lucy backing away, to turn and run out of the ward.
‘You’ll never believe this,’ she said dashing back. ‘A dog’s swallowed a Christmas stocking.’
She was right; it was difficult to believe. First a mouse … and now a stocking. What next? A sprig of holly? A cracker or two? Pull the other one, Paul. It was no joke. So, yes, I did find it hard to swallow, though it seemed these wretched animals didn’t.
‘The man on the phone won’t listen to any advice from me,’ she went on. ‘Could you have a word?’
Up in reception, I picked up the receiver to be told about the stocking hung at the bottom of the bed for the wife. She loved chocolates … only so did their Rottweiler. And he found them first.
‘Scoffed the lot,’ said the man. ‘The stocking as well.’
‘Have you tried making him sick?’
‘How would I do that?’
‘By pushing a lump of washing soda down his throat.’
‘I don’t think Bismarck would let us near enough to do that.’
I flinched as a growl blasted from the handset.
‘Down, Bismarck,’ ordered the voice. ‘Down. Sorry about that,’ he added, ‘he is rather excitable.’
‘Well, it might be worth a try,’ I urged.
‘Ummm … just a minute then.’ There was a brief, muffled discussion in which I heard the word ‘vet’ before the voice returned. ‘My wife says she doesn’t keep that sort of thing in the house.’ There was another growl and a ‘Down, Bismarck’.
‘Well, how about some strong salt solution?’
Another growl. ‘Down. Sorry?’
‘Strong salt solution …?’ I faltered, willing myself to picture the perfect scene – the man and his wife each side of the passive Rottweiler who opens his heavy, powerful jowls at their command and allows them to spoon the salty solution into the side of his mouth. He licks their hands gratefully as they