Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [49]
‘Dad reckons she should have had them by now,’ declared Joshua.
‘By the way, I must apologise that Alex’s not here,’ said Jill. ‘He thought Eric was coming over and decided it would be best if he made himself scarce. Something to do with their golf match last Wednesday?’
Emily interrupted, her words whistling through her teeth. ‘He’s gone to Tethsco’s.’
‘Dad hates shopping,’ said Joshua, still peering down at Miss Piggy. ‘But he said we were out of bacon.’
‘Yes … well …’ I said. There were going to be plenty of rashers here if I didn’t do something to help this pig.
‘Sorry,’ said Jill, shushing the children. ‘She’s been straining all morning,’ she went on. ‘But we were hesitant about calling Eric … er … you … out in case we were worrying unduly.’
Conscious of three sets of eyes on me, I ran my hands over the sow’s extended abdomen, but she didn’t stir. Not a twitch, only the rasping, bellow-like action of her thorax. I eased my hand over the coarse, ginger hair of her flank and cautiously began to feel each teat. I knew enough of pigs to know they could turn on you without warning and I didn’t fancy being flattened by several hundredweight of pork. Quietly, tentatively, I moved my hand along her mammaries, ready to spring out of the way should I need to.
‘She’s got lots of titties,’ Emily suddenly said with a giggle.
I rolled the hot, dry skin of one between my fingers and squeezed it. A tiny drop of yellow fluid appeared at the tip – a sign that she was definitely due to farrow.
‘Things don’t look too good,’ I muttered more to myself than to my audience. But Joshua was quick to pick up on it.
‘She’s not going to die is she?’ he asked, the stern expression on his face beginning to crack as his eyes glistened and his lips trembled.
Jill reached out and touched his arm. ‘Mr Mitchell’s going to do his best, dear.’
Joshua pulled his arm away.
I levered myself round to the sow’s rear end, lifted the limp, straight tail and, with a rolling action, eased a thermometer though her anal sphincter. There was not a murmur from her. But there was certainly one from Emily.
‘What’s he doing now?’ she queried, her eyes wide, bulging like organ stops through her glasses.
‘Taking her temperature,’ explained Jill.
‘You didn’t put it up there when I was poorly.’
‘But you’re not a pig, stupid,’ said Joshua, recovering his composure.
‘That’s yuck,’ said Emily with a loud tut as she watched me pull the thermometer out and wipe it on some straw.
I stood up and turned to Jill. ‘Thought as much,’ I said grimly. ‘It’s 40°C – way above normal. Best if I take a look inside.’
‘You can’t do that,’ gasped Emily. ‘Trisha’s indoors … she’ll bite you.’
‘He means take a look inside Miss Piggy’, explained Jill, giving Emily a hug.
‘Gross,’ muttered Joshua but kept his eyes fixed intently on me as I donned a plastic glove, smeared it with grease and gently began an internal examination of the sow to the accompaniment of further exclamations of ‘gross’ and ‘yuck’ from both children as my arm slid in deeper. She seemed relaxed and open enough to produce a piglet even though I couldn’t feel one through the warm, slippery folds of her cervix. But to judge from her massive size there was a platoonful inside just waiting for the order to pop out.
Once finished, I decided to give Miss Piggy a shot of Oxytocin. ‘It will help to make the womb contract,’ I explained to Jill.
‘Bit like an induced labour then,’ she said.
Emily was listening to every word. She pulled at Jill’s sleeve. ‘Mummy. What’s a womb?’
Jill hesitated a second, looking at me with ‘Help’ written on her face. ‘Er … well … it’s where …’ she faltered.
‘It’s where the babies lie before they come out,’ I said on the spur of the moment, desperate to say something.
‘Like my bed womb then,’ lisped Emily, apparently satisfied.
And I’ve got to get them out of bed soon, I thought to myself, as I plunged the injection into Miss Piggy