Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) by Malcolm D. Welshman Page A
Authors: Malcolm D. Welshman
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kitchen.
‘Little short of a miracle, don’t you think?’ said the moon-faced woman, beaming from ear to ear. ‘Our prayers have been answered.’
‘Indeed, yes,’ I said, forcing a smile. Reverend James had a lot to answer for, I thought, as Wilfred emitted another piercing shriek from inside the cottage.
It didn’t quite end there either. As spring slipped into summer, Tammy’s hunting skills were ably demonstrated by the variety of creatures she brought home, usually to be deposited on Eleanor’s mat just inside the kitchen door. I was told of some and was witness – from my observation point on top of the bricks – to others. There was the frog that hopped in circles round the kitchen floor; Eleanor collected it up by sliding the slimy green creature into a plastic storage box using the lid and presented it to me, wondering if it was injured. I had little knowledge of amphibians, apart from the few owned by Mr Hargreaves who once came into surgery with a tree frog that, on being X-rayed, showed it had suffered a fractured tibia – it had healed of its own accord. Eleanor’s frog seemed fine so was released into her pond. Surprisingly, it was done without a drop of squeamishness from her.
I blew caution to the wind and remarked on her sangfroid and the fact that she now never scolded Tammy when she ran in with her offerings.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s because Tammy was so wonderful in bringing back Wilfred all in one piece. Completely unscathed. I still can’t believe it.’ She shook her head, causing her grey chignon to sway slightly. ‘So I can’t possibly reprimand her now when she returns with her little tokens of affection. It would be so unfair on her.’
Fair enough. It was no real concern of mine as long as I wasn’t going to be requested to extract some wriggling reptile from her drawers again. So I was rather surprised, the following Sunday, to hear the raised voice of Eleanor, reprimanding her cat, saying, ‘That’s really wicked of you, Tammy. Paul will be absolutely furious.’
Me? Furious? Intrigued, I was up on my pile of bricks in a flash. And I have to confess, I could feel a bit of a smirk on my face as I looked over, thinking I was about to see another of Tammy’s trophies. And indeed there was another trophy. Eleanor was holding it.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, lifting up the chewed lump of flesh, a guilty look on her face. ‘I’ve a horrible feeling this could be yours.’
She was right. My smirk rapidly vanished as I recognised the lump of mutilated flesh Tammy had sneaked home with – it was the side of pork I’d been defrosting in the kitchen, ready to roast for lunch.
The swine!
SUPER-MANNED BUT NEARLY BANNED
W hen I told Beryl about the mangled joint on the Monday morning, she listened, her head forward, shoulders hunched, her powdered face immobile, the bottom lip of her scarlet mouth hanging open. ‘Really? Well, I never!’ she remarked when I’d finished; and then, still staring at me lopsidedly, the powder on her face cracked as her lips creased back and she started to snigger, her shoulders began to heave, her eyes – both of them– began to water until, with a loud snort, she started to cackle with laughter, swaying back and forth on her office stool like a demented crow.
‘OK … OK, Beryl,’ I huffed. ‘It wasn’t that funny,’ thinking perhaps a little more sympathy should have been forthcoming at the demise of my Sunday lunch. While Beryl reached up the sleeve of her black cardigan to pull out one of her inexhaustible supplies of tissues and dab at the remaining tears still trickling down her face, I turned to look at her computer screen and peered at the list of appointments booked in for me through to 10.30am; the rest of the morning then being left clear for the routine spays, castrates and dentals – most of which would have been admitted already, their owners having signed the consent forms, Mandy or Lucy checking the
‘Little short of a miracle, don’t you think?’ said the moon-faced woman, beaming from ear to ear. ‘Our prayers have been answered.’
‘Indeed, yes,’ I said, forcing a smile. Reverend James had a lot to answer for, I thought, as Wilfred emitted another piercing shriek from inside the cottage.
It didn’t quite end there either. As spring slipped into summer, Tammy’s hunting skills were ably demonstrated by the variety of creatures she brought home, usually to be deposited on Eleanor’s mat just inside the kitchen door. I was told of some and was witness – from my observation point on top of the bricks – to others. There was the frog that hopped in circles round the kitchen floor; Eleanor collected it up by sliding the slimy green creature into a plastic storage box using the lid and presented it to me, wondering if it was injured. I had little knowledge of amphibians, apart from the few owned by Mr Hargreaves who once came into surgery with a tree frog that, on being X-rayed, showed it had suffered a fractured tibia – it had healed of its own accord. Eleanor’s frog seemed fine so was released into her pond. Surprisingly, it was done without a drop of squeamishness from her.
I blew caution to the wind and remarked on her sangfroid and the fact that she now never scolded Tammy when she ran in with her offerings.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘it’s because Tammy was so wonderful in bringing back Wilfred all in one piece. Completely unscathed. I still can’t believe it.’ She shook her head, causing her grey chignon to sway slightly. ‘So I can’t possibly reprimand her now when she returns with her little tokens of affection. It would be so unfair on her.’
Fair enough. It was no real concern of mine as long as I wasn’t going to be requested to extract some wriggling reptile from her drawers again. So I was rather surprised, the following Sunday, to hear the raised voice of Eleanor, reprimanding her cat, saying, ‘That’s really wicked of you, Tammy. Paul will be absolutely furious.’
Me? Furious? Intrigued, I was up on my pile of bricks in a flash. And I have to confess, I could feel a bit of a smirk on my face as I looked over, thinking I was about to see another of Tammy’s trophies. And indeed there was another trophy. Eleanor was holding it.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, lifting up the chewed lump of flesh, a guilty look on her face. ‘I’ve a horrible feeling this could be yours.’
She was right. My smirk rapidly vanished as I recognised the lump of mutilated flesh Tammy had sneaked home with – it was the side of pork I’d been defrosting in the kitchen, ready to roast for lunch.
The swine!
SUPER-MANNED BUT NEARLY BANNED
W hen I told Beryl about the mangled joint on the Monday morning, she listened, her head forward, shoulders hunched, her powdered face immobile, the bottom lip of her scarlet mouth hanging open. ‘Really? Well, I never!’ she remarked when I’d finished; and then, still staring at me lopsidedly, the powder on her face cracked as her lips creased back and she started to snigger, her shoulders began to heave, her eyes – both of them– began to water until, with a loud snort, she started to cackle with laughter, swaying back and forth on her office stool like a demented crow.
‘OK … OK, Beryl,’ I huffed. ‘It wasn’t that funny,’ thinking perhaps a little more sympathy should have been forthcoming at the demise of my Sunday lunch. While Beryl reached up the sleeve of her black cardigan to pull out one of her inexhaustible supplies of tissues and dab at the remaining tears still trickling down her face, I turned to look at her computer screen and peered at the list of appointments booked in for me through to 10.30am; the rest of the morning then being left clear for the routine spays, castrates and dentals – most of which would have been admitted already, their owners having signed the consent forms, Mandy or Lucy checking the
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