Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [99]
But it didn’t deter the three of them. They bobbed and weaved in front of Cleo, each clapping and calling for her attention. Ben and Barnaby really got into the swing of things, jumping up and down, like jacks-in-a-box, waving their arms above their mops of curls.
‘Cleo … here,’ shouted Ben – or was it Barnaby?
She swung in his direction.
‘Cleo … over here,’ shouted Barnaby – or was it Ben?
If Cleo wasn’t confused, I certainly was.
But the twins were enough of a distraction to enable Kevin eventually to dart forward, grab her head collar and clip on the rope. And with her head once restrained, she immediately calmed down, though she still continued to puff out her cheeks and utter low rumbles of anger.
Now it was the turn of us two vets to step in. We did so with caution, both Crystal and I wary of the beast, even though Kevin now had her head firmly secured and held close to his chest. There was still the risk of an almighty kick from one of those back legs should Cleo chose to strike a blow for camel’s lib.
‘Which foot did you say it was?’ queried Crystal bending over, hands on her knees, peering down at the camel’s hind legs, half-buried in straw.
‘Her right,’ said Kevin, scuffling forwards as Cleo tried to pull away. ‘Hold still, you bugger,’ he added with a whistle.
‘OK, Paul, let’s see what we’ve got here.’ Crystal crouched down alongside Cleo’s massive thighs and reached down to pull the straw away from the camel’s upturned toes.
I shuffled up next to her. ‘Careful now,’ she warned, ‘in case she kicks out. I quickly shuffled back a pace or two. No need to be too heroic here; I was no Lawrence. ‘Guess there’s the reason for her lameness,’ said Crystal, her finger circling above the sole between the claws of Cleo’s right foot. The area was swollen, the skin red and angry-looking.
‘An abscess?’ I said, peering over her shoulder.
‘I should think so. Probably the result of a puncture wound.’
Kevin chipped in. ‘You going to lance it then?’
I looked down at Crystal.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s the idea.’
Kevin gave a long whistle. ‘Right, lads,’ he said, turning to the twins, ‘you both stand out of the way. Like Maggie Thatcher, this lady’s not for turning.’
For a moment, I thought he was referring to Crystal who, indeed, did have a very determined look on her face. But he was talking about Cleo. He now had his right arm tucked round the back of her head, his hand holding on to the head collar on that side. Her chin he held close with his left hand, still clutching the head rope, the end of which was wrapped round his wrist. If Cleo was going to lunge, Kevin was going to take the lunge with her.
With the instrument pack unwrapped at a distance judged to be safely out of kicking range, disinfectant was splashed on to the affected sole. Cleo gave a low grumble and shifted her weight – all 500 kilos of it – her brown, mountainous hump tilting towards us.
‘Just watch out,’ warned Crystal.
I’d taken out a scalpel handle and attached a blade ready to give to Crystal but wisely put it back until required. She had now edged back over Cleo’s right foot and was about to prod the swollen sole to locate the spot where the skin pitted most – the spot to plunge the blade in.
Despite her warning, despite the fact we were all tensed and ready, we were still unprepared for the ferocity of Cleo’s reaction to having her foot prodded, however gently. There was an agonised bellow. Her right leg thrashed out in a cloud of straw. Crystal was knocked back into my arms.
‘Shit!’ she exclaimed and quickly extricated herself from my embrace. Her chest was heaving. So was mine.
Cleo’s leg was now sticking out in the straw.
‘Hey, Dad, we’ll sit on her,’ chirruped Ben and Barnaby.
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ said Crystal who, having brushed herself down, had recovered her composure.
‘What the heck,’ whistled Kevin. ‘They’d enjoy a bit of a rough and tumble. Go on,