Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [62]
I muttered something along the lines of ‘Not to worry’, although inwardly squealing with anguish. If God worked in mysterious ways then he now had me completely baffled. This was turning into more of a chimp’s tea party than a vicar’s and I still had the judging to do. I stepped out of the jam – the human one spread round the jumble stall – and headed across a paved terrace at the back of the vicarage. French windows were wide open. A sign stuck to a pane of glass informed people of the teas available inside with a list of cakes on offer. Good job Henry the Dalmatian couldn’t read.
A hot and flustered group of youngsters had assembled at one end of the terrace, settled themselves on chairs and were busy picking or blowing their noses in between doing the same to a variety of musical instruments. As I scooted off in my continuing search for the “Pets’ Corner”, the band turned from noses to musical scores and struck up a long, drawn out ‘Colonel Bogie’.
I eventually found the copse at the end of a well-tended kitchen garden, the path through the middle of which was bounded by rows of runner beans forming wigwams of green down each side; to the left along a mellow brick wall ran a lean-to greenhouse, with panes of mirrored silver reflecting the blistering heat.
A page torn from an exercise book and nailed to a tree trunk proclaimed ‘Pets’ Corner’ in red ink with an arrow pointing down into the glade. Stepping from the blinding light into the gloom of the copse was like stumbling into pitch darkness. Until my eyes adjusted, I couldn’t see where I was going and blindly slipped and slid down a path still tacky and wet from the thunderstorms earlier in the week. I staggered to a halt in the middle of the glade blinking like a batty barn owl. Slowly, I became conscious of pairs of eyes – row upon row of them – encircling me.
To every tree was tied a dog. Several overweight black Labradors sat, bow-legged, bellies hanging down, tongues lolling out, chains of saliva dangling from their jowls. A white poodle, the red bow in its top-knot askew over one eye, was rapidly turning brown as it scrabbled in the mud grizzling for its owner. An Irish Setter was trying to mount a Dachshund while a Boxer had tied itself in knots round a clump of holly in an attempt to take a chunk out of a growling Jack Russell.
A girl of about 14 with long, mousy hair tied back in two bunches, picked her way over.
‘Have you a pet?’ she asked.
I recognised her voice as the one belonging to the girl on the phone. ‘I’m Mr Mitchell.’
The girl’s face remained blank.
‘The vet … you asked me to judge the pets.’
‘Oh, yes. Right. Well …’ The girl spread her hands and looked round the glade at all the canine eyes now staring at us with intense interest.
I stared back with far less enthusiasm. ‘So where are the owners?’
‘I thought it best if they left their dogs tied up.’ The girl gave an apologetic smile. ‘It was getting so crowded and churned up down here.’
The gloom of the glade seeped into me, not helped by the mud which clung tenaciously to my shoes. Oh well, I thought, I’ve landed myself in this so might as well get on with it. Get some of the animals looked at before their owners return. I pulled a small notebook from my pocket and began to make notes. By my sixth identical-looking black, fat, middle-aged Labrador I was getting confused. There must have been some fertile Chawcombe bitch churning out such puppies like peas from a pod.
I turned to the poodle which now resembled a brown rat, bow adrift, paws so caked in mud that she had difficulty in lifting them. But she had no problem in lifting her lip as I bent down to examine her – an action which had her immediately struck off my list of possible finalists.
I approached