Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [65]
‘Pretty penny,’ trilled Cedric giving me a beady look.
Miss McEwan craned her neck ’til her own beady eyes were level with my lapels. ‘But I don’t mind spending out if it warrants it. But you’ll be the best judge of that, won’t you, Mr Mitchell?’ she added, her voice dropping several decibels to sound distinctly threatening.
‘Watch it,’ intoned Cedric gravely.
Oh no, I groaned inwardly. Not more intimidation. And this time from a mynah Mafia. I’d have my eyes pecked out by crows next if I didn’t watch it. I could just see it … well, actually, I wouldn’t if the crows got their way. As it was, I only needed the local baker to threaten to slice my up wholemeal, the grocer to give me a cauliflower ear and the butcher to make mincemeat of me and I could be driven out of Chawcombe – back to Ashton – five miles as the crows fly – providing they didn’t get me first.
Keep calm, I thought. Don’t be swayed. I made encouraging noises to Miss McEwan, saying how high the standard of entries were, such a variety of interesting pets, and how, of course, Cedric was extra special, no doubt worthy of being a winner. At that point, Cedric blew a loud raspberry. Mmm. Seems he wasn’t such a dumb bird after all. I excused myself and turned back to the lines of pets still waiting to be judged.
By the time I’d looked at the ginger kittens, four budgerigars, two more hamsters and my eighth black Labrador, I was completely befuddled – my mind swimming in circles like the goldfish in the bowl I was now peering into.
‘You’ve already looked at him,’ said his spotty owner.
Finally, when I’d almost given up, my attention was caught by a small boy in grey flannels, some way apart from the main stream of people, patiently standing at the edge of the glade, a slim Labrador – black, of course – quietly sitting by his side. I picked my way over several intertwined leads to reach him.
‘Hello. What’s your name?’
‘Thomas,’ said the boy shyly.
‘Well, Thomas, you’ve a nice quiet dog here.’
The boy’s face creased in a frown for a moment. ‘Actually, Cindy’s not really mine. She’s my dad’s.’
‘Ah, but I’m sure you help to look after her.’
‘Oh, yes, I do,’ said the boy with a grin. ‘I’m allowed to feed her. But I have to be careful ’cos she’s very greedy. Dad says she’ll get too fat otherwise.’
‘Do you take her for walks?’ Cindy’s head twisted to one side, her ears pricking up.
‘Oh yes. She chases rabbits on the Downs.’
‘Does she now?’
‘I know she shouldn’t and I do try to stop her. Honest.’ Thomas put a protective arm round the Labrador’s neck. ‘Don’t I, Cindy?’ He kissed her on the head and she turned to lick his face.
I liked the rapport evident between the boy and the dog. The Labrador seemed in peak condition – shining coat, bright, clear eyes, and slim, no doubt from all that rabbit chasing. Yes, I decided, Cindy would be the overall winner. Second place I’d give to a little girl’s Peruvian guinea pig – a fine specimen, its hair smartly spiked in whorls of tan, black and white. And third would be an elderly Border Collie who spent the entire time snoozing, oblivious of the uproar around her. Whether she was well trained or just dog-tired and counting sheep I couldn’t tell. But her teenage owner, despite his jeans with knees protruding and gold rings clipped in all visible orifices, seemed very fond of the old girl – and that’s what counted with me.
Keeping my head down, I skirted past Mr Lucas and his Red Setter, side-stepped Jane Bradshaw with difficulty and tiptoed away from Miss McEwan, though I didn’t escape the notice of sharp-eyed Cedric who emitted an extra loud raspberry as I made my escape.
I told the girl of my choice, handing her the list.
‘Well, if you really think so,’ she said dubiously, scanning the three names.
Puzzled at her reaction, I watched her hurry away.
The prizes were to be presented on the terrace where a space had been cleared for owners and their pets to parade. We all spilled