Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [21]
Brenda butted in. ‘Perhaps if we could get her down into the garden, that might get her moving. She loves sniffing round the tables looking for the odd dropped crisp. What do you think?’
Bernie snorted, harpooning her idea with one look. ‘Just how do you think we’ll get her down there. Crane?’ He glowered at her. She glowered back. I could feel the heat rising between them. I felt I had to smother the tension before we had a volcanic eruption on our hands. I interrupted, ‘A blanket?’
They both turned and stared at me. ‘What?’ they chorused.
‘We could try a blanket as a sling to get her down the stairs.’
There was another snort from Bernie.
‘Well, it’s worth a try,’ said Brenda.
Bernie grimaced. ‘’Spose so,’ he said with distinct lack of conviction.
‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ thundered Brenda, storming off to return moments later with a duvet cover. ‘It’s the best I can do,’ she said apologetically as she handed it across to me.
Once we had managed to lever Peggy on to the cover, we slid her out on to the landing and, with me at the front, holding one end of the duvet cover, Bernie at the other, Peggy stretchered between us, we began the descent of the stairs. My fingers, tightly entwined in each corner of the cover, started to go numb. Any minute I thought Peggy would roll forward, knock me flying and pulverise me at the bottom; but we made it without anyone getting puréed in the process.
In the garden, we hoisted Peggy to her feet again. This time she remained standing for nearly a minute, her hind legs trembling violently, her sides like bellows, heaving with the exertion. Then she dropped, crashing on to the concrete in a mass of quivering flesh.
I began to despair.
‘Look, I’ve an idea,’ said Brenda. ‘Just wait here a minute.’
‘Well, we’re hardly likely to go anywhere,’ muttered Bernie giving her another dark look.
She returned waving a packet of crisps at us. ‘They’re Peggy’s favourite. Smoky bacon.’ She took one out and held it in front of the dog’s nose. There was the sharp snap of jaws as the crisp disappeared in one doggy gulp. ‘Nothing wrong with your appetite, girl,’ she said dangling another crisp just out of reach. Peggy grizzled and gave one of her lop-sided grins, straining her neck forward; but she stayed splayed out, trembling.
‘You know, it could be something quite simple like cramp,’ I said kneeling down next to Peggy’s quivering hindquarters. I began to knead the muscles in her right thigh. After a few minutes, I switched to her left leg. Peggy lay there, sighing, seeming to relish the pummelling.
‘Right. Let’s get her on her pins again,’ I finally declared.
With no messing about, Peggy suddenly found herself yanked into a standing position with Brenda flourishing the crisp packet in front of her. ‘Come on, sweetie. Have another crisp.’
‘If you want one, you’ll bloody well have to go and get it or else,’ growled Bernie, his voice full of menace. The grin on Peggy’s lips evaporated. She licked her lips. ‘Well, go on then. Move yourself, you great fat mutt.’ He raised his foot. ‘Move.’
Peggy flinched and swayed like a rocking horse off its rockers … gave one tentative step forward … then waddled up to Brenda and buried her head in the crisp packet.
‘See. Just needed a bit of persuasion,’ said Bernie as Peggy rapidly hoovered out the contents of the crisp packet and looked round for more.
Diet time for you, matey, I thought. A low-calorie diet. No titbits, and weigh-ins on the platform scales at Prospect House.
Several weeks passed but the drop in weight I was looking for just didn’t happen.
I complained to Bernie, ‘Are you sure you’re being strict about her diet?’
‘Absolutely,’ he declared. ‘See here.’ He showed me a booklet in which there were neat columns headed by days of the week, below which the types of food and amounts given were itemised.
Yet still Peggy’s girth refused to shrink. Bernie and Brenda’s enthusiasm for the regime, or rather Peggy’s lack of it, began to wane.