Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [55]
‘You can put Oscar down if you wish,’ I said. ‘It’s perfectly safe. He won’t catch anything.’
‘I’d prefer to hold on to him if you don’t mind,’ she replied with a sniff. ‘One can’t be too careful. You hear of MSRA and all that in our hospitals. I dread to think what Oscar could pick up.’ She gave the wrapped bundle a squeeze. She glanced about the room, her eyes alighting on my degree certificate framed on the wall. ‘Yours?’ she queried.
I nodded.
She studied it for a moment. ‘Says you qualified this year.’
I nodded again.
‘So your experience is somewhat limited then.’
Ouch. What could I say? I knew precisely what I would have liked to have said but this one-time pedlar of cat food would certainly not like to hear it. Instead, I cleared my throat softly before speaking. ‘So what can I do for you?’
‘Darling boy … it’s not what you can do for me, but what you can do for Oscar here.’
Wow. I don’t know about beating the clock, but my ticker certainly started beating extra to the minute. It was pounding in my chest. I smiled wanly and leaned across the table, endeavouring to spot the dog, lost in layers of pashmina. I’d heard her tell Beryl that Oscar was a Maltese terrier, five years old, doctored, with a sensitive disposition and wary of men. Great. All I could see was a head – silky white hair tied over it in a blue bow matching the colour of the shawl, button-black eyes, and lips that drew back in a snarl the closer I leaned. The snarl revealed an undershot jaw with a line of yellow teeth like a row of rotting palings just waiting to impale me with their own mix of MRSA. Miss Cavendish seemed oblivious to the dribble seeping into her pashmina.
‘So what seems to be the problem?’ I asked.
‘That’s for you to find out, sweetie,’ she drawled.
Tick, tick went my cardiac clock, ever faster.
‘My usual vet is Mr Scott-Thomas up in Bayswater,’ she went on. ‘Such a nice man … very experienced … very understanding. His son is a casting director for TV reality shows like Wenches in the Wilderness and Cast Adrift in the South Pacific – that sort of thing. I’ve been approached, you know.’
Not wishing to rock her boat, I feigned interest while wishing I could cast her off my premises and get her to sail in the direction of Bayswater and Scott-Thomas senior. But as Miss Cavendish pointed out, it was rather a distance to travel and for something so trivial … something she thought a provincial vet should be able to deal with. And if it turned out to be something more serious, then, of course, she’d have no hesitation in breaking her ‘rest’ and taking Oscar back up to London.
Having listened to all this, I reached out to pat Oscar’s head with the vague notion of establishing some sort of rapport, some sort of contact. I certainly got the latter when a mouthful of teeth sunk themselves into my palm. I snatched my hand away half-expecting a shower of broken incisors to follow.
‘There, there …’ cooed Miss Cavendish, ‘did the doctor frighten you? He’s not like our nice Mr Scott-Thomas, is he? Now there’s a doctor who knows how to treat us.’
I felt a red glow spread through me, like molten lava welling up. A Mount Vesuvius on the point of erupting. It was only the sudden appearance of Lucy that stopped me from exploding.
‘Sorry to interrupt, Paul, but we’ve got an RTA on our hands. Cynthia Paget’s just rushed in with her chihuahua. He’s been hit by a car.’
I looked at Miss Cavendish. ‘Do you mind taking a seat a moment? I must check this out.’ I didn’t wait for a reply but dashed out behind Lucy and ran down to the theatre where I found Mandy who had Chico lying prostrate on the ops table, his pale little body looking lost on the vast expanse of the white surface. She’d a drip already set up, the needle waiting to be inserted. But as I skidded to a halt, Chico’s breathing was coming in rattling gasps and a trickle of blood oozed from his mouth. I lifted a lip, noted the blanched gums. The pupils of his eyes were widely dilated and fixed. As I