Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [50]
‘Right,’ I declared with more confidence in my voice than I felt. ‘Let’s give that a few hours to work.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘I’ve got evening surgery coming up. But I’m on duty afterwards, so I’ll pop out later this evening.’
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ said Jill. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘Mummy … Mummy …’ chorused Joshua and Emily. ‘Can we stay up to watch?’ They saw her shake her head.
‘Oh please …’ said Joshua.
‘Pleathe …’ echoed Emily.
‘It could be way past your bedtimes.’
And it was. Thankfully, there was no sign of the children when I returned that evening. The dusk of midsummer had begun to settle over the Downs, a rim of gold in the west, the outlines of the bungalow and barn blurred in an amber glow. There was a car in the drive which I guessed was Alex’s. Good … an extra pair of hands would be helpful. Not so helpful was the yapping bundle of ghostly white which shot across the darkening yard, heading straight for my feet.
A head poked out of the barn door. ‘Trisha. Come here, you stupid mutt,’ commanded a gruff voice. To no avail. The Jack Russell continued to dance and prance round my heels like a banshee on booze, only kept at bay by judicious swinging of my black bag. ‘Sorry about Trisha,’ apologised Alex, introducing himself. ‘She’s a great ratter but when it comes to people she’s a pain in the backside.’
If she could jump that high it would be another area to guard, I thought, as I squeezed mine through the barn door, keeping the snapping terrier out. As a golfing buddy of Eric’s, I’d already formed a mental image of Alex – a similar rotund figure – both of them bouncing down the freeway together. Not a bit of it – he was a small, wiry chap with something of the gypsy about him. Maybe it was the dark complexion and equally dark eyes and eyebrows topped by a tangle of coal-black hair – but more likely the large gold ring looped in his left earlobe. Some sort of statement, no doubt, but somehow it didn’t go with a 1950s bungalow, UPVC conservatory and a round of golf with Eric. But who was I to say? Me with my Calvin Klein boxers, a gold stud in each ear and an aviary full of budgerigars in my back garden.
Jill was wiping strands of sticky afterbirth from a highly vocal piglet. ‘Her first,’ she said, proudly holding up the shiny, pink, wriggling baby.
‘Whoops … looks like her second’s arriving,’ exclaimed Alex. Miss Piggy gave a grunt, her balloon flanks contracting, her hind legs stretching out; then out plopped a piglet.
‘And here comes her third,’ I remarked as another shot out.
The sow showed no interest in her offspring despite their high-pitched clamour – a cacophony of squeals loud enough to engender a rush of maternal instinct in the most boorish of mothers. Not so in Miss Piggy. She just lay there, limp, exhausted, head arched back in the straw, emitting the occasional feeble grunt.
‘I’ll recheck her temperature,’ I said as another piglet emerged to lie spread-eagled with its litter mates.
Alex switched on an overhead lamp and angled it round to shine down on Miss Piggy’s rear. As he did so another porker appeared – her fifth. The sixth arrived seconds later.
‘Must be the light attracting them,’ joked Alex. But the smile belied the tension in his face.
The seventh was born as I twisted the thermometer round to read it – 39°C. Only a little less than earlier and still way above what it should be. No wonder she looked so ill.
‘I reckon she’s got septicaemia,’ I said, raising my voice above the frenzy of squeaks. ‘That’s why there’s no milk.’ As I spoke, another three piglets joined the hungry chorus line. A protesting litter of ten were now pulling furiously on Miss Piggy’s unyielding teats.
‘Whatever are we going to do with this lot?’ said a dismayed Jill as Miss Piggy gave another grunt and produced her eleventh and twelfth.
‘Feed them, that’s what,’ said Alex pushing back a lock of hair. ‘I’m sure we can do it.’
‘You’ll certainly