Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [43]
Two young lads, wearing baseball caps and Harry Potter T-shirts brought him in. He’s been rescued from the hollow bole of the oak as the last of it was felled.
I carefully opened the shoe-box they’d slid on to the consulting table, parted the cotton wool and stared down at the vivid pink-skinned creature barely two inches long curled up inside. The most conspicuous features were the dark bulges of unopened eyes and huge, claw-like feet.
‘It was in a large sort of nest,’ chirruped one of the boys, standing on tiptoe to peer into the box.
‘But we don’t think it was a bird’s nest,’ said the other lad, leaning over his friend’s shoulder. ‘And it doesn’t look like a bird.’
‘Of course it’s not a bird,’ hissed his mate, squirming round. ‘It’s got four legs. Birds have only got two.’
‘I know that. I’m not daft.’
‘So it’s not a bird.’
‘Didn’t say it was.’
‘It’s a baby squirrel,’ I said, hastily intervening.
‘There. Told you it wasn’t a bird,’ said the shorter of the boys, looking up at his friend.
‘But you didn’t know what it was,’ he retorted.
‘Nor did you.’
‘Didn’t say I did. I just knew it wasn’t a bird.’
‘Anyone could have worked that out, dick-head.’
‘Now, now … boys. Let’s decide what we do with the squirrel, shall we?’ I tapped the side of the box. The boys fell silent and stared up at me from beneath the brims of their caps.
‘Would either of you be able to look after him?’
Both shook their heads. Hmmm – I was afraid this was going to happen. But no doubt Beryl could track down a local animal rescue centre with the expertise to rear a baby squirrel. But I hadn’t reckoned on Lucy.
‘Ah, isn’t he sweet!’ she declared as soon as she set eyes on him. All talk of rescue centres was dismissed as she set about constructing an artificial drey from an empty drugs carton with an infra-red lamp suspended above it.
‘Cyril needs two-hourly feeding to start with,’ she informed me.
‘Cyril?’
‘Cyril – squirrel. Why not?’
Hmmm. It would be Lucky Ducky and Turkey Lurky next if we weren’t too careful. Though I wouldn’t mind a juicy Lucy.
‘Paul?’
‘Sorry. Just thinking … what are you going to feed him on?’
‘Milkocat,’ said Lucy, her voice full of confidence. She brandished a tin of milk powder in front of me.
‘That’s for rearing kittens,’ I said a tad too smugly.
She glowered at me. ‘I’m well aware of that. But I’m sure it will do the trick.’
I was far from convinced. ‘And how do you propose to get the stuff into him? It’s not going to be easy.’ God, I was beginning to sound like a real Jonah.
‘With this,’ she said waving a pipette at me.
I was about to tell her that she’d find it difficult but decided I’d said enough already. Let her find out for herself.
She did. ‘Blast!’ she swore as milk shot across the squirrel’s mouth and squirted out the other side.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said looking daggers at me.
I held up my hands. ‘Didn’t say a word.’
‘Didn’t have to.’
I don’t think she really knew what I was thinking. My little juicy Lucy.
I stepped back as Mandy marched into the prep room with the usual snap and crackle of her starched uniform.
‘What’s all this?’ she said. ‘Not falling out are we? All because of a baby squirrel. Can’t have that.’ Her face was a picture of innocence.
Liar. I knew damn well she’d love to see us scrapping.
‘It’s nothing we can’t sort out,’ said Lucy.
Mandy smiled sweetly. What saccharine smugness. Pure Mandy-candy. ‘Let’s try a syringe, shall we?’
That didn’t work either. More milk seemed to spray over the squirrel’s eyes, nose and body than actually went down his throat.
‘You’re not holding him properly,’ declared Mandy after several abortive attempts.
‘Well, if you think you can do better, you hold him,’ retorted Lucy.
Uh-oh … there was that tension again, that antagonism, bubbling up between them.
Better to be out of all this,