Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [8]
I slid the blanket off the cage and found myself being stared at by another set of coal-black eyes. Only these belonged to a bird a little larger than a blackbird and with bright yellow wattles. It hopped along the perch towards me, cocked his head and fixed me with a beady look.
Miss McEwan edged along the consulting table and did the same. ‘He’s very special,’ she repeated, turning to the bird. ‘Aren’t you, Cedric?’
The bird bobbed up and down and then, in Miss McEwan’s precise tone of voice, said, ‘Cedric’s special.’
Miss McEwan gave a high-pitched tinkle of a laugh. ‘Yes, you are, pet. Let’s hope this vet knows how to treat mynahs.’
I didn’t actually. We briefly covered the workings of a chicken at Veterinary College and I once poked a dead blackbird I’d found on my parent’s lawn; hardly the stuff of avian medicine. The nearest I’d got to operating on a bird was pulling the giblets out of an oven-ready chicken. Cedric gave me a startled look and rapidly hopped away.
Miss McEwan addressed me. ‘They’re not like cats or dogs, you know.’
I did know. Five years of veterinary training had at least taught me that. I took a deep breath and rather pompously said, ‘I am familiar with the avian species.’ I could have added, ‘… roasted at gas mark 6 with sage and onion stuffing.’ But somehow I thought Miss McEwan would find the comment in poor taste. So I tried to be tactful. ‘You say his name’s Cedric?’
‘Ask him,’ shrilled Miss McEwan.
‘Sorry?’
‘Ask him. Go on. He wouldn’t mind. It’s his party piece.’
I groaned inwardly. This was all I needed – a tête-à-tête with a mynah bird. But maybe this was all part of establishing a good rapport with clients. A new learning curve for me. So I turned to his cage and cleared my throat. ‘What’s your name?’ I said.
The bird bounced back and forth along the perch, clearly delighted at being spoken to. But he didn’t reply.
‘Ask him again,’ urged Miss McEwan. She saw me hesitate. ‘Go on. Ask him.’
I felt a tic throb in my forehead. This was getting silly. But such was Miss McEwan’s insistence I felt obliged to obey. ‘What’s your name?’
‘What’s your name?’ echoed Cedric in a perfect imitation of Miss McEwan’s voice, the tone so strident I almost felt compelled to answer.
‘Go on, tell him,’ shrieked Miss McEwan, hopping from one foot to another, her cape flapping wildly round her shoulders.
‘Paul Mitchell.’
‘My name’s Cedric,’ said the mynah with a manic cackle.
Miss McEwan also began to laugh, a bell-like peal of laughter that rolled round the room. Cedric, mimicking his bouncing owner, jumped up and down emitting a series of piercing whistles.
Suddenly, the door swung open and Eric popped his head round, grimacing at the noise. ‘Everything all right, Paul?’
‘Yes … yes … ’ I seethed, throwing the blanket back over the cage. There was a deathly silence followed by a muffled raspberry.
‘Very well then. I’ll let you get on with it,’ said Eric, swiftly withdrawing.
‘Dear me. Cedric’s a card and no mistake,’ sniffed Miss McEwan, snatching a tissue from the folds of her cape to dab each corner of her eyes. The scent of lavender infused the room. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without him.’
‘So what’s the problem?’ I asked tersely.
Miss McEwan snapped to attention and explained. Over the last month Cedric had been pecking at his tail. Once or twice she’d found spots of blood on the floor of his cage and realised something must be irritating him. ‘Of course, I keep telling him to stop but all he does is mimic me.’
From under the blanket came a muffled ‘Stop it’.
‘See what I mean.’
I nodded. ‘Best if we take a look.’ As I removed the blanket again, Cedric cocked his head and gave a wolf whistle. He gave another startled whistle as I winkled him out of the cage, his head pinned between my index and third finger, my