Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [95]
When she’d recovered and was back at her bungalow, the battle between the gospel according to Paul – Paul Mitchell, that is – and the faith that she gained from her dictionary recommenced. An unholy war of words would erupt on every subsequent visit.
‘Jasper’s coat feels very greasy,’ I said, having just given a greyhound his booster vaccination while holding up his scruff. I looked at my fingers, sliding them together.
‘I’ve been rubbing olive oil into his skin,’ stated Miss Millichip. ‘My dictionary says it’s the best way to treat dandruff.’
I glanced at my watch. There was still time to explain the problems of seborrhoea before I had to get back for evening surgery. I left Miss Millichip leafing through the ‘S for skin’ entry in her dictionary, and placed a bottle of medicated shampoo on the table beside her.
On another occasion, one of her beagles suffered for a fortnight with a sore eye. Miss Millichip had been bathing it with weak, strained tea.
‘Doesn’t seem to be getting any better,’ she admitted when she eventually called me in.
The poor beagle had very puffy eyelids with severe reddening of the lining, the corners stained brown with tears. The centre of the eye was white and pitted.
‘What’s that green stuff?’ asked Miss Millichip, watching me suspiciously as I instilled some drops into the dog’s eye.
‘Fluorescein – it will show us if there’s any ulceration there.’
‘Jasper’s just got a cold in his eye. That’s what it says in my dictionary.’
‘Oh really?’ I replied, turning the beagle’s head towards her. The fluorescein had clearly delineated the crater pitting the surface of the cornea. ‘Does your dictionary tell you what that is – U for ulcer?’ She was given a tube of antibiotic ointment to put in the eye three times a day. ‘And no more tea,’ I snapped as she glanced up at the bookshelf.
The final showdown came that December when Miss Millichip’s greyhounds and beagles erupted in a frenzy of scratching and biting at themselves. The result was dogs with angry red spots on their abdomens and legs, and large areas of raw, seeping skin, the hair in those areas having been rubbed away.
The annunciation made by Miss Millichip via her bible was ‘E for eczema’ – ‘Classic symptoms,’ she boomed.
Not that damned book again, I thought, as I completed the examination of 12 very itchy dogs.
In each case, I only had to run my finger lightly along one of their flanks for a back leg to shoot up and start clawing at the skin. A very strong scratch reflex. But what was causing the irritation? F for fleas? Yet there were no signs of flea dirts. M for mange? The lesions weren’t typical. My mental dictionary was beginning to let me down. I needed to come up with a diagnosis ASAP before I became S for stumped.
As we walked back across the yard from the kennels, I stopped to peer into a shed full of straw bales.
‘I suppose you’ve tried treating the dogs?’ I asked, leaning over the door to pick up a handful of straw. Silly question. The answer was bound to be ‘Yes’.
‘Of course – chopped parsley, garlic pills and boiled fish. Internal cleansing. Does the world of good.’ Miss Millichip saw my look – S for sceptical. ‘Well, it can often help,’ she added.
‘But not in this case,’ I said, throwing down the straw and smacking my hands together to shake off the dust.
‘I’m now trying Simpson’s Blood Mixture. My dictionary recommends it to cool the blood.’
‘An F-word would be the best thing for this lot.’
‘You what? An F-word?’ exclaimed Miss Millichip, visibly startled. I swear that wasn’t in her bible.
‘F for fire. Put a match to all this straw.’
‘But I couldn’t possibly do that,’ she protested. ‘It’s the straw for the dogs’ bedding. I’ve only just bought it. Cost me a packet.’
‘Cost you more than a packet if you persist in using it. Your dogs will end up with chronic skin damage.’
‘But why?’
‘The straw’s alive with forage mites. They’re causing all the itchiness. Burn the lot of it.’
Miss Millichip