Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [86]
He sprung round the operating table and placed a finger and thumb either side of the skink’s body which still lay there, inert. ‘It’s cold … that’s why it’s so sluggish. Oh well … almost as good as an anaesthetic.’ Avoiding my eyes, he flapped quickly out of the room.
Mr Hargreaves was extremely grateful. ‘Please accept this little gift for your waiting room. It’s two Carausius morusus.’
Not wishing to offend, I accepted the creatures, handing it over to a reluctant Lucy to look after. They proved to be prolific breeders and, within weeks, a notice had to be pinned to the board in the waiting room saying, ‘Wanted – good homes for baby stick insects’.
Beryl thought the incident with the skink hilarious and typical of Eric. ‘We’ll have to find you some more exotics,’ she declared, leaning against the open back door, cigarette in her moth, hand cupped below it. Did the woman ever use an ashtray?
My thoughts turned to lions, camels, giraffes – the sort of thing Crystal would deal with over at Westcott’s Wildlife Park. The sort of thing I’d like to deal with. In your dreams, Paul. Still, I knew Beryl was doing her best to keep my interests in exotics alive; and what she had me dealing with next was beyond the wildest of those dreams. In fact, it was an absolute nightmare.
‘They have four lungs instead of two,’ said its owner, Mr Thomson, glancing up, his eyes sharp like a terrier’s.
‘Really?’ I replied, keeping a wide gap between me and the consulting table as the tarantula crawled across his hand.
‘Yes. And their jaws work vertically instead of horizontally. Fascinating, don’t you think?’
‘Fascinating … yes …’ I faltered, still keeping my distance.
The spider’s black body nestled in Mr Thomson’s huge calloused hand, the long, furry legs dangling over his fingers. I was thankful when he informed me he’d just bought the tarantula from the local pet shop and, knowing I was interested in such creatures – his friend Mr Hargreaves had told him – thought I might like to take a look. He prodded it back into its plastic carrying box and lifted his Jack Russell on to the table.
‘But it’s Ben here who really needs seeing. His anal glands are giving him gyp again.’
I squeezed them with great relief. But I wasn’t so lucky on the next visit; this time there was no dog … only the wretched spider.
‘I’m having problems with it,’ confessed Mr Thomson, placing the white box on the table. ‘Wondered if you could help.’
I gulped. ‘Well … I don’t really know much about spiders. In fact, nothing at all. I don’t think …’
Mr Thomson raised his hairy hand, the sleeve of his jacket straining over the swell of well-developed biceps. ‘I’d like a professional opinion anyway.’
‘Of course,’ I demurred as the biceps rippled.
He opened the box and the spider slithered on to the table. ‘You don’t have to be a vet to see it’s not well.’
I had to agree. The tarantula lay on its back, its legs closed over its bulbous abdomen. If ever a spider looked sick, that tarantula did. But what the hell was I supposed to do with it? Listen to its chest? Palpate its abdomen? Take its temperature? Ah … I marched over to the trolley and whipped the thermometer from its pot of disinfectant.
‘Blimey …’ gulped Mr Thomson, his eyes on stalks, ‘you’re not going to …’
‘No… no …’ I shook my head. The intention was to use the thermometer to prod the spider, see if there were any signs of life. I was rewarded with a slight tremor of the legs. Unless the tarantula was doing a terminal knees-up, there was life in it yet. I flicked it over and gingerly examined it closer. The spider’s coat of fine bristles had lost their black lustre. They looked lifeless, dry.
‘Interesting,’ I murmured, running the tip of the thermometer along its back. ‘See? There seems to be a hairline crack down its back.’ Something from