Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [96]
‘Mildred, burn it,’ I repeated. ‘It will save you a great deal in vet’s bills.’
That struck a cord. A match was struck, too, and the straw was burned.
‘I also burned that old veterinary dictionary,’ she later told me.
I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘You did what, Mildred?’
‘You heard – burnt it.’
Wow! So Miss Millichip had finally got rid of that wretched dictionary. I felt like a punch-drunk priest on hearing the news. ‘You can’t imagine how pleased I am to hear you say that,’ I confessed.
Thank God. Now there’d be no more ancient remedies inflicted on the animals; and Miss Millichip would at last accept my advice without constantly referring to that battered old book of hers. But hang on – she hadn’t finished yet.
‘I must admit it was rather out-of-date. So I decided it was high time I bought the latest edition.’ She waved a glossy, pristine book at me. ‘My new bible.’
At the sight of it, my feelings rapidly became very unchristian, so I quickly decided on only one course of action – E for exit.
THE WILD SIDE OF WESTCOTT
‘What planet are you on?’
I didn’t reply.
‘Paul … hello? Anyone at home?’ Lucy leaned across the sofa and prodded me.
‘Sorry. Miles away.’
‘Exactly. Several thousand light years away by the look of you.’ Lucy sat back and re-directed her gaze at the TV screen where a lioness was stalking through the parched grass of a Kenyan game park, approaching the edge of a lake for a drink. ‘I thought you liked these wildlife programmes.’
True, I did. And, true, I had been watching this one. But as that lioness had drifted through the wildlife park my mind had drifted to our own wildlife park here in Westcott. Yes, I know – there was no real comparison. The grass here was more bowling green than savannah; Westcott’s small lake more for toy boats than slaking the thirst of a lion; and any crocodiles seen would be the lines of school children passing through.
I blamed it all on Crystal. Ever since she’d mentioned us visiting Westcott’s Wildlife Park together I’d been up the Limpopo without a paddle. But even if I’d had a paddle I’d still have been oar-struck at the thought of striding through the reserve with Crystal at my side in a crisp khaki safari jacket, tight jodhpurs and knee-length boots, tracking down an injured rhino here, a battered buffalo there, ever wary of the danger that could be lurking behind the next acacia tree – or rather, weeping willow – as we’re still talking Westcott here – where even if the trail’s hot (and getting more hot and sticky by the minute as my imagination takes fire), the climate’s certainly not.
So we continue to thrash through the bush (rhododendrons) – to emerge at the lakeside (edge of pond) to take in the broad sweep of water (pond again) – the raucous cry of the fish eagle (seagull) and the sight of a pack of hyenas (two dachshunds and a Yorkshire terrier) loping across the parched, yellowed grass (there’d been a hosepipe ban all summer) so typical of this part of Kenya (West Sussex).
I felt another prod.
‘Paul. Why have you got that silly expression on your face? What’s wrong with you?’
Of course, when the visit to Westcott’s Wildlife Park finally materialised it was nothing like I’d imagined. Crystal in tight, white jodhpurs? In your dreams, Paul. Nevertheless, she was dressed for the occasion; well-cut, dark-green corduroy jeans, a chunky polo-neck sweater and Puffa-style, light-green gilet. It was certainly enough to get my bongos beating.
Not so Westcott’s Wildlife Park. I’m not sure what I expected; an expanse of undulating paddocks through which roamed herds of antelope, zebra, a sprinkling of giraffes, set against a backcloth of the green slopes of the Downs? The reality was a fenced-off corner of the municipal gardens across from the seafront, crammed with an ill-assorted collection of pens, paddocks and aviaries containing an even more ill-assorted collection of animals, of which the only one present in sufficient numbers to constitute a herd was the guinea pig.
I guess one could have passed a pleasant