Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [51]
‘At least with the weekend ahead we can have a good crack at it,’ he said. ‘And we can rope in Emily and Joshua to help. They’ll love to.’
Jill turned to me. ‘We’ve some milk powder in our emergency stores. Will that be OK to use?’
‘Fine. Yes.’ I replied. ‘But add some extra glucose if you’ve got any … at least for the first 24 hours.’
‘Assuming we can get it down them … how often should they be fed?’
‘Ideally every two hours.’
Jill didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘We’ve a baby’s bottle. Will that do?’
I nodded. ‘And I’ve got a fostering kit in the car that you can borrow.’ I didn’t envy the Rymans feeding 12 young piglets but they seemed a determined couple and keen to have a go.
Before I left, I gave Miss Piggy a massive intramuscular injection of long-acting antibiotic in the hope that it would check the infection and bring the temperature down. Even with such a thick, viscous suspension being pumped into her leg, she showed no reaction. Not one flinch.
I suggested calling in again the following Wednesday, unless any problems cropped up before then.
‘Good planning,’ whispered Beryl on the Monday, giving me a conspiratorial wink with her glass eye. ‘That’s Crystal’s morning off. She won’t know anything about it.’ I wondered whether she was going to enter the visit on the computer in some sort of cryptic code but decided to leave that to her. As for Eric, he pulled me into the dispensary to ask how things had gone.
‘Good … good,’ he said in a low voice when I told him that Miss Piggy had farrowed. He poked his head out of the door as I mentioned the pig’s fever, nervously looking up and down the corridor. What was he looking for? A spy in the camp? Tell-tale Lucy or Mandy the mole perhaps?
‘I appreciate you keeping all of this under wraps,’ he said, stepping back in. ‘Makes it so much easier for me.’
On the Wednesday morning, I found I’d been given a visit to see a Mr Myarn – an anagram of ‘Ryman’ as Beryl was to explain later – clever, eh?
‘Yes, Myarn … you know …’ said Beryl giving me a warning look as Mandy marched through reception.
And when my morning appointments had finished, she dashed down to my consulting room to say the coast was clear should I want to make a run for it now. What was it with this woman? Had she been watching too many reruns of The Great Escape? Nevertheless, I dashed out to the car resisting the urge to duck in case a hail of bullets erupted from the hospital.
‘So how are things?’ I asked, staring down at Miss Piggy, her family clustered round her, while the Ryman family clustered round me. ‘We’ve managed to feed the piglets,’ said Alex. ‘They’re fine.’
‘That’s my one,’ said Emily pointing to the fattest and reddest. ‘She’s called Pinky.’
‘Mine’s the one kicking his legs,’ said Joshua.
That must be Perky, I thought.
‘We’re still worried about Miss Piggy,’ said Jill. ‘As you can see, she hasn’t really moved. No interest in food. We’ve tried all sorts of things to tempt her.’
I could see the trough alongside, full of untouched pellets. And on top, a row of Smarties and a pile of crisps. Bacon flavoured? I wondered. Now, now, that was naughty. This was serious.
‘Are you going to stick that thing up her bottom again?’ asked Emily.
There were more giggles and groans of disgust as I did so. But the temperature had dropped back to normal. I could see no reason why Miss Piggy shouldn’t be on her feet, and I told the Rymans this.
‘She’s just a lazy cow then,’ said Alex.
‘She’s a pig, not a cow, Daddy,’ said Emily crossly.
I picked up Pinky. ‘You’ve been looking after her very well, Emily,’ I said, holding up the fat, little piglet. It squealed and wriggled in my hand like an animated sausage – a pork sausage, of course.
Miss Piggy jerked her head up, her piggy, grey eyes stared at me. All of a sudden, there was a whirlwind of straw, bedding flying everywhere, a scrabbling of trotters,