Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [75]
I was on the phone immediately.
‘Hello … Major Fitzherbert here,’ the familiar voice barked down the line.
‘Er … sorry to trouble you on a Sunday, Major. It’s Mr Mitchell here.’
‘Mitchell?’
‘The vet.’ I took a deep breath and started to explain. ‘So I’m wondering whether she’s turned up at your place,’ I concluded.
There was a pause followed by a deep-throated chuckle. ‘Well, young sir, I reckon she has. A slip of a thing has been keeping Cuddles company here these last couple of days. The two of them are snoozing in front of the fire this very minute. She fits your description so I guess she must be yours.’
The mention of ‘yours’ didn’t ring true somehow; she’d never really been mine. We’d never bonded together. I found myself explaining this to the Major and added, ‘She’s what you might call an independent sort and has never been at home here.’
The Major gave another throaty chuckle. ‘Just the sort of cat I admire. Still, she seems to have shacked up with Cuddles for the time being. What say we give them a chance together? Would you mind?’
Did I mind? Part of me said, ‘Yes, I do mind!’ while the other told me I was being selfish, too possessive, that I should let her go. The latter won.
I couldn’t help thinking the same about Lucy. As I climbed into bed that night and snuggled down next to her, it was still on my mind. Was I being too possessive about her as well? Too self-centred? Only thinking of my welfare, not hers … unwilling to let her go should she chose to do so.
It was Lucy who spoke first. ‘Paul … I’ve been thinking …’
I felt a knot tighten in my stomach.
‘That cat …’
‘What about her?’
‘You knew she’d never settle. That she’d never be yours.’
‘Well, yes, I did,’ I admitted. ‘How did you know?’
‘Think about it.’
I did and eased myself closer.
‘All the time you spent pulling her through the accident, never once did you think of giving her a name. That surely proves something. That she didn’t really belong. That she wasn’t yours.’
I nuzzled Lucy’s neck, felt her soft hair fall across my cheek, felt her warmth, breathed in her scent. She was right. The cat had always been just that – the little tortoiseshell cat. Never named … never mine.
‘But you’ve got a name, Luce,’ I whispered. ‘And I’d like you to be mine, all mine, and never leave me,’ I added, enfolding her in my arms.
RUFFLED FEATHERS
‘You’re getting quite a reputation,’ remarked Mandy as I tied off the last stitch, the bitch spay completed. ‘Really?’ I replied. This sounded interesting. Perhaps Crystal had noticed I was becoming a dab hand at operating. All these spays and castrations making me sharp with the knife. Why, I could now winkle out an ovary in the shake of a lamb’s tail. Baaaah – so what? It wasn’t exactly cutting edge stuff – not in the sense of complicated surgery. That still tended to fall into Crystal’s hands. No slice of it came my way.
Mandy made a fuss of dabbing the minute trickle of blood that oozed from one corner of the wound before whipping off the spay cloths and disconnecting the endotracheal tube from the anaesthetic machine in her customary efficient manner.
‘Come on then,’ I urged, pulling off my surgical gloves, sweat showering out of them. ‘What’s this about a reputation?’
Mandy sprinkled some antibiotic powder along the line of the wound and covered it with a thin strip of cotton wool before looking up. ‘Seems you’ve become our bird expert.’
Oh … so that was it, was it? Paul Mitchell, the man you had to see if your Joey needed his bill trimmed or the canary her claws cut. Some reputation! I blamed it on Beryl; she was the one who kept pushing the birds on to me and then only because Eric and Crystal didn’t want to deal with them. The trend had started with Miss McEwan’s mynah and, as the summer flew past, so did the number of feathered patients that winged their way through my surgery.
Later that day, I was able to add one more to my ever-increasing flock.
‘Another budgie is it, Beryl?’ I asked.