Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [19]
‘Ah yes – Willow Wren. Sorry about that. I know it was promised you but there’s been a bit of a problem with the current tenant. Crystal’s sorting it out. Best to have a word with her about it.’
So I’d be a little longer in Mrs Paget’s hands, I thought. Oh well. I’d just have to grit my teeth. I only wished that chihuahua of hers would grit his and stop going for my ankles whenever I stepped out of my room.
Talking of teeth, I was suddenly conscious of some rather large gnashers that were being exposed at a level with my knee. They belonged to a very large, very fat, very friendly yellow Labrador who was grinning at me, lips curled back, exposing a fine set of canines while her eyes were fixated on the pasty from which I was just about to take a bite.
‘Well hello, Peggy,’ exclaimed Eric with exaggerated enthusiasm, leaning across to fondle her ears vigorously, obviously thankful for the distraction. She sat down heavily and raised a paw which Eric shook. ‘There’s my girl.’
Peggy’s grin seemed to expand, her lips curling back even more.
Eric turned to me. ‘It’s her way of asking for titbits.’
Perhaps I should employ her technique in order to get the practice cottage, I thought. Actually, I quite liked the idea of kneeling in front of Crystal with my tail wagging. Meanwhile, it was just grin and bear for me. ‘Doesn’t look as if she needs any,’ I said.
Peggy was huge – obese. She sat there, on fat, bulging haunches, one back leg splayed out, exposing rolls of belly fat.
‘Couldn’t agree more, but it’s her party piece. The grinning. Isn’t it, girl?’ Eric broke off a portion of his pasty and offered it to her. It was snatched with alacrity and barely touched the sides of her throat as it was swallowed. Another grin followed.
‘You shouldn’t be doing that, Eric,’ said a voice over my shoulder. ‘You’re always telling me she should be on a diet.’
‘I know … I know,’ he said, hastily dropping the next bit of pasty he’d intended giving Peggy and looking up.
I twisted in my seat to find a tall, heavily-built woman standing behind me with a tray in her hand. She had frizzy blonde hair with dark roots and broad, arched brows like drawn bows from under which she was shooting arrow-like looks at Eric.
‘And you a vet.’ The woman tutted, but in an amiable way. She levered herself round our table. Not an easy task as space was limited and amply filled by her ample posterior. She looked at me. ‘Your friend here is always telling me I should get some weight off.’
For a moment I thought she was referring to herself as the broad hips, thighs, biceps and chest highlighted by the pink T-shirt and contour-hugging cotton trousers she was wearing suggested that calorie counts didn’t figure in her life; and if they did, then she was a poor mathematician.
But I realised she was referring to Peggy when she bent over to give the Labrador a pat as Eric introduced her – Brenda. She and her husband, Bernie, I was told, were the Woolpack’s proprietors.
‘Fat chance of you losing weight, eh, Peggy?’ Brenda went on to say. ‘Not with the likes of Eric slipping you titbits.’
Fat chance. Hmm. An unfortunate choice of words, I thought, in the circumstances. But it was chance, fat or otherwise, that got me landed with Peggy’s pounds not three days later.
Beryl was in one of her black moods – dress-wise and mentally. As usual, she was wearing black, her raven hair stiff with lacquer; she clicked her scarlet nails over the computer keyboard, muttering softly to herself like a Macbeth witch incanting spells over a steaming cauldron. Black magic filled the air – and not of the chocolate box variety. Nothing sweet about Beryl today.
My cheery ‘Good morning, Beryl’ was met with a sour look and a downcast eye – while her glass one swivelled to the ceiling.
‘You’ve a visit booked later this morning,’ she said gruffly. Bubble … bubble … Beryl and trouble.
I raised an eyebrow, which she was quick to spot.
‘Couldn’t get them to come in. Besides, it’s