Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [41]
I cautiously pulled down the lower lid again, opened the teeth of the forceps and fastened them on the foreign body I’d spotted lodged in the conjunctiva. Blodwyn howled. She swung away. Lucy, Mandy and Mrs Timms were dragged across the room in a screech of table legs while I was left holding the evidence – the tip of a cat’s claw.
With still no sign of the heatwave diminishing, another hot, sticky meeting with Blodwyn loomed.
Beryl was apologetic. ‘Sorry, Paul,’ she said. ‘It’s a house visit this time. Mrs Timms just can’t get her in.’
As I stood waiting for Mrs Timms to answer her door, the sun beat ferociously down. Rivulets of sweat ran between my shoulder blades. I shivered despite the heat, not relishing the thought of trying to handle Blodwyn off my own bat.
‘We were up on the Downs,’ said Mrs Timms, ushering me into the lounge. ‘Blodwyn spotted a pheasant and gave chase into the bracken. Now she can hardly stand.’ She stood in front of the fireplace, her hands clicking through the row of pearls round her neck.
This time there was no boisterous greeting from Blodwyn, no shaking of the massive head, no lolling of the tongue. Nothing. She was lying stretched out on the hearth rug, panting heavily, her body quivering. There was only the merest flick of her tail as I bent down to examine her.
‘When did all this happen?’
‘About an hour ago. I heard this yelp and she came rushing back to me. By the time we’d got home she’d collapsed.’ Mrs Timms knelt down and cradled the dog’s head, but it wasn’t necessary. Blodwyn had no interest in what was going on. All her zest, her bounce, had vanished. Clearly something was drastically wrong. But what?
I ran my hand down her back and noticed her left hind leg appeared swollen.
‘Help me roll her over,’ I instructed.
With Blodwyn levered on to her side and her right leg pushed back, I was able to examine the inside of her left thigh where, with less hair, the mottled red and purple bruising was more obvious. As were the two minute puncture wounds.
‘She’s been bitten by an adder,’ I exclaimed, jumping to my feet. ‘That explains her state of shock.’ I opened my black bag. ‘But don’t worry, we’ll get her sorted out.’ I gave Blodwyn an anti-inflammatory injection and promised to visit again the next day.
It was another scorcher.
‘Well, how is she?’ I enquired, standing in the lounge, my shirt wet and sticking to my back – the result of nerves more than the heat. There was no sign of Blodwyn.
Mrs Timms was about to reply when I heard a pounding on the patio … a familiar skittering of nails … a familiar huffing and puffing. I scarcely had time to turn around before 30 kilos of well-muscled bull terrier tore through the French windows and rammed into the back of my legs. I was sent spinning on to the carpet. Tongue lolling, tail wagging furiously, Blodwyn stood over me and gave a deep bay of excitement.
‘Well … well …’ said Mrs Timms with a nervous little laugh. ‘She’s obviously bowled over to see you.’
Still flattened on the carpet, all I could do was grunt – too stumped for a reply.
CYRIL TAKES THE BISCUIT
The spell of hot weather finally broke, and with it the stench of seaweed was washed away by a series of heavy thunderstorms. Instead of hot, panting pooches coming through the surgery, I was subjected to wet, mud-splattered mutts that shook their coats, showering mine in brown spots, before sitting to the commands of their dishevelled owners, both pets and owners quietly steaming.
Indirectly, through those thunderstorms, another creature turned up to disrupt my daily routine.
In the top corner of the Green, just opposite Prospect House, stood an oak tree – just the one solitary specimen and not the best example of its type. The spread of its boughs was far from the one conjured up by royal oaks depicted in the pages of glossy country living magazines. No majestic canopy for this oak – that was never going to happen, as over the years various branches that were deemed a threat to