Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [94]
I’d been about to call out for Miss Millichip but it seemed pointless to try and compete against the cacophony of barks and howls that had now erupted. I expected the racket to have drawn Miss Millichip from whichever building she happened to be in. But there was still no sign of her. Really, this was not good news; my time was precious. I shouldn’t have to hunt the woman down; she should be here to meet me. Beginning to feel cross, I marched over to the so-called office, the door of which was open. That old veterinary dictionary – the red, tattered one – lay open on the table. No doubt Miss Millichip had been genning up before doing battle with me.
I stepped out and round to the stables where the three Welsh cobs looked up from their hay nets and gave a whicker of greeting. Still no sign of her. Chickens flapped and squawked, jumping away from me as I slithered down the muddy path towards the pigsty. The noise of the hounds had abated somewhat so I stopped, cleared my throat and shouted, ‘Miss Millichip.’ A crow cawed in the field beyond. A couple of ducks came running up, quacking, looking for scraps. Still no answer. I tried again. ‘Miss Millichip.’
Two heads appeared round the corner of the pigsty; porky eyes peered at me; several grunts were uttered; and then, with a squeal from each of them, the two Saddlebacks trotted to the centre of their mudbath of a paddock and turned to stare at me, jowls chomping, froth and flecks of red bubbling round their snouts.
My heart skipped a beat. Just what was that round their lips? That red foam? Blood? I picked my way over to the sty’s fence for a closer look. The pigs gave another loud snort and swung away. It was then I heard the moan … a long, soft moan coming from inside the sty. I could feel my heart thumping against my chest as I clung to the fence to prevent myself slipping in the sea of mud which had oozed through from the paddock and made the path up to the sty treacherous. There was another moan as I reached the wall of the sty and peered over, dreading what I might find. And my worst fears were realised.
There lay Miss Millichip, sprawled on the muddy concrete, half-conscious, neck twisted to one side, a gash on her temple, and half her face eaten away.
Of course, it made banner headlines in the Westcott Gazette: YOUNG VET SAVES LADY’S BACON – full report on page three. There it was given a good half-page with a photo of me grinning nervously next to Gert and Daisy and another of me looking equally nervous next to a head-bandaged Miss Millichip in hospital.
As it turned out, my initial impression of Miss Millichip’s features being torn from her face by two rampaging pigs had been a little wide of the mark – a little too Grand Guignol. True, she had gashed her head open when she’d slipped in their pen and, true, Gertie and Daisy had investigated, snuffling at her bloody wound. When asked my veterinary opinion as to whether they would have made a meal of her, well, there seemed no harm in suggesting that it could have happened.
‘So,’ said the young reporter, ‘if you hadn’t turned up when you did, it would have been chips for her.’
Indeed – Millichips, I thought to myself, but said nothing aloud for fear of being quoted. Wouldn’t do to ham things up too much.
Of course, the publicity generated was good for the practice. There seemed to be a sudden surge in new clients with much whispering of ‘That’s him … there …’ and nudging of elbows as I walked through the waiting room riding high on my new-found fame – nothing like hogging the limelight – until I overheard someone saying, ‘He’s the pig man … hmm … looks like one, too.’ That soon brought me back to earth with a bump.
As for Miss Millichip, what could I say? Well, actually, I could have said virtually anything. She was so … so grateful for what I had done. Not that she necessarily took any notice