Pets in a Pickle by Malcolm D Welshman

nose danced.
    ‘Now what’s this all about?’ I said drawing her close.
    Her lips drew back in a wide grin.
    ‘Come on. Out with it,’ I added.
    ‘It’s just these aviaries …’ She hesitated. ‘They’ll be perfect for waifs and strays.’
    ‘Waifs and strays?’ I echoed uneasily. ‘What do you mean?’ But I didn’t have to ask. Lucy’s life revolved around animals; they were her passion.
    So I might have guessed that when we moved into Willow Wren there would be a host of visitors moving in with us. To start with, it was perfectly manageable: a lame guinea pig and a rabbit that had lost an eye in a fight. But within weeks, the menagerie had grown. In one aviary twittered six budgerigars and two love birds; in another squeaked a hoard of guinea pigs; some ferrets and bantams appeared; and then the cottage became home to three tabbies and a deaf Jack Russell called Nelson. To compound things, a goose turned up – but she was my fault.
    I arrived back after morning surgery one Saturday with a wicker basket. As I heaved it on to the kitchen table, there was a loud honk from inside. Lucy turned from chopping up some tomatoes and cucumber for lunch and said with a wry smile, ‘Sounds like another addition to the family coming up.’
    ‘Well, it’s not exactly a pet,’ I explained, beginning to unstrap the lid. ‘I don’t know if you remember that incident with one of Eric’s clients. The Stockwell sisters’ sheep?’
    ‘Weren’t they the ones that got savaged by a walker’s dog? Yes, I do remember. Hawkshill Farm. He had to go out and stitch several up.’
    It had been three, in fact; and two others had had to be put down.
    ‘Well, this was a “thank you” present for him from the Stockwell sisters. Only he didn’t want it … and has passed it on to us.’
    As the lid of the basket creaked open, a long white neck uncurled from within.
    I added, ‘With five months to go before Christmas, she should fatten up nicely.’
    A large orange bill swung out; a steely-grey eye fixed me with a hard stare, and a loud hiss was spat in my direction. I felt almost obliged to say, ‘Sorry … didn’t mean to offend you.’
    In a flurry of snowy down and flaying webbed feet, the goose was scooped out of the basket. She ruffled her feathers, wagged her tail and promptly relieved herself on the floor before commencing a voyage of discovery, leaving a well demarcated trail behind her.
    Ignoring the mess she was making, I enthusiastically explained that she was a variety of goose called an Embden. ‘They make particularly good table birds,’ I added as our prospective Christmas dinner pecked at her reflection in the oven door.
    ‘Have you thought where we’ll keep her?’ asked Lucy, her voice slightly on edge as she watched our posse of three cats glide into the kitchen, their eyes wide and gleaming as they spotted the young goose.
    ‘I’m sure we can find somewhere.’ I thought for a moment. ‘There’s a spare aviary, isn’t there?’
    Lucy shook her head. ‘I’ve just put some more guinea pigs in there.’
    ‘Well, what about that old chicken coop?’
    ‘I’ve got bantams in it.’
    ‘The garden shed?’
    ‘Where would the ferrets go?’
    ‘No problem. They can be moved into the garage until Christmas. And don’t look so worried.’ I threw an arm round Lucy’s shoulder and gave her a reassuring hug. ‘I’ll get her wings pinioned so there’ll be no problem with her flying off.’
    But I’d misinterpreted the concern in Lucy’s eyes She was more worried about the hullabaloo that was imminent. The cats had encircled the goose and were crouched, ready to spring, tails twitching, whiskers quivering.
    ‘If we’re not careful …’ she warned as the cats leapt forward. The goose let out an ear-splitting honk, flapped her wings vigorously and sailed into the air, skimming over the cats’ heads to land with a deafening crash into the vegetable rack, its contents spilling out in all