Pets on Parade (Prospect House 2) by Malcolm D. Welshman Page B
Authors: Malcolm D. Welshman
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animals hadn’t had food or water overnight, before carrying cat baskets or dragging reluctant dogs down to the kennels. ‘Got quite a full morning, I see.’
‘The usual Monday morning panic stations,’ sniffed Beryl, blowing her nose, her giggling now under control, her face having reverted to its usual deadpan expression. ‘By the way, your mention of Mrs Venables and her cockatiel reminds me I’ve got one booked in for you to see this evening. At least now you’ll know what you’re looking at.’ She said it without a trace of irony. That was the thing with Beryl – she often came out with comments which you could argue were withering or sarcastic but, when spoken with that deadpan face of hers, they left you wondering whether she realised what she was saying. My guess was that she knew precisely what she was saying, as once, when I was having my tea break with her, she admitted that she was a plain speaker and, as a result, would occasionally ‘get peoples’ backs up’.
Having felt niggled by her reaction to my tale about Tammy, I refused to be drawn any more, and merely gave a tolerant smile. Referring back to the appointments list, I saw a name which I deliberately picked up on. ‘I see Mr Entwhistle’s coming in this evening,’ I remarked casually, and, as suspected, the mention of his name made Beryl’s face instantly light up again.
‘Yes,’ she said, barely able to suppress the enthusiasm in her voice. ‘He said on the phone that he’s got a new puppy. Wants to bring her in for her vaccinations. Crystal was getting rather booked up so I offered him an appointment with you. He seemed happy enough with that.’
Thanks a bunch, Beryl. Another tolerant smile … only to have that smile immediately wiped off my face when she continued, ‘There’s a lady coming in soon with a sick Schnauzer which sounds quite poorly. I thought it could be serious, so I’ve had to double-book you.’
Beryl didn’t elaborate. But I knew that if she considered it serious, it probably was. Beryl had been working at Prospect House for many years now and was experienced enough to sift out any priority cases over the phone; and, indeed, I reckoned she could have diagnosed what was wrong with many of them before they were seen. So I awaited the arrival of the Schnauzer with some trepidation.
Meanwhile, as I was about to leave reception and get ready to start the appointments list, there was a scuffling and skittering of paws on the vinyl behind me as a dog was reluctantly dragged in by a harassed-looking man in his mid-thirties. The man was powerfully built, tall, wearing a brown tweed suit with waistcoat, white shirt and tie, sporting a dark brown trilby and round, brown, framed glasses giving his face an owl-like expression. He looked familiar, although at first I couldn’t place him. Then in a flash – a sort of Superman flash – it came to me. A Clark Kent lookalike – him off the Superman movies – although the dog he was dragging in was far removed from Krypto, the Superdog of the comic strip. The hound shared the same colouring – white – and had an equally long tail and big ears; but whereas Krypto was a large dog, this one was tiny – a titchy terrier whose large ears and long tail were wildly out of proportion to his small, elongated body, supported by stumpy little legs that barely kept his undercarriage from scraping along the ground. Definitely some Dachshund in his breeding, I thought. A weedy little specimen. So, no Krypto. However, he was wearing a red jacket which, with a stretch of the imagination, you could have thought of as a cape, although I couldn’t see him using it to fly into action. As it turned out, he didn’t need anything to fly into action. I found that out to my cost later.
The Clark Kent lookalike had to yank on the dog’s lead to drag the terrier across to the reception desk, the dog having now promptly sat down firmly on his haunches, back legs splayed out either side
‘The usual Monday morning panic stations,’ sniffed Beryl, blowing her nose, her giggling now under control, her face having reverted to its usual deadpan expression. ‘By the way, your mention of Mrs Venables and her cockatiel reminds me I’ve got one booked in for you to see this evening. At least now you’ll know what you’re looking at.’ She said it without a trace of irony. That was the thing with Beryl – she often came out with comments which you could argue were withering or sarcastic but, when spoken with that deadpan face of hers, they left you wondering whether she realised what she was saying. My guess was that she knew precisely what she was saying, as once, when I was having my tea break with her, she admitted that she was a plain speaker and, as a result, would occasionally ‘get peoples’ backs up’.
Having felt niggled by her reaction to my tale about Tammy, I refused to be drawn any more, and merely gave a tolerant smile. Referring back to the appointments list, I saw a name which I deliberately picked up on. ‘I see Mr Entwhistle’s coming in this evening,’ I remarked casually, and, as suspected, the mention of his name made Beryl’s face instantly light up again.
‘Yes,’ she said, barely able to suppress the enthusiasm in her voice. ‘He said on the phone that he’s got a new puppy. Wants to bring her in for her vaccinations. Crystal was getting rather booked up so I offered him an appointment with you. He seemed happy enough with that.’
Thanks a bunch, Beryl. Another tolerant smile … only to have that smile immediately wiped off my face when she continued, ‘There’s a lady coming in soon with a sick Schnauzer which sounds quite poorly. I thought it could be serious, so I’ve had to double-book you.’
Beryl didn’t elaborate. But I knew that if she considered it serious, it probably was. Beryl had been working at Prospect House for many years now and was experienced enough to sift out any priority cases over the phone; and, indeed, I reckoned she could have diagnosed what was wrong with many of them before they were seen. So I awaited the arrival of the Schnauzer with some trepidation.
Meanwhile, as I was about to leave reception and get ready to start the appointments list, there was a scuffling and skittering of paws on the vinyl behind me as a dog was reluctantly dragged in by a harassed-looking man in his mid-thirties. The man was powerfully built, tall, wearing a brown tweed suit with waistcoat, white shirt and tie, sporting a dark brown trilby and round, brown, framed glasses giving his face an owl-like expression. He looked familiar, although at first I couldn’t place him. Then in a flash – a sort of Superman flash – it came to me. A Clark Kent lookalike – him off the Superman movies – although the dog he was dragging in was far removed from Krypto, the Superdog of the comic strip. The hound shared the same colouring – white – and had an equally long tail and big ears; but whereas Krypto was a large dog, this one was tiny – a titchy terrier whose large ears and long tail were wildly out of proportion to his small, elongated body, supported by stumpy little legs that barely kept his undercarriage from scraping along the ground. Definitely some Dachshund in his breeding, I thought. A weedy little specimen. So, no Krypto. However, he was wearing a red jacket which, with a stretch of the imagination, you could have thought of as a cape, although I couldn’t see him using it to fly into action. As it turned out, he didn’t need anything to fly into action. I found that out to my cost later.
The Clark Kent lookalike had to yank on the dog’s lead to drag the terrier across to the reception desk, the dog having now promptly sat down firmly on his haunches, back legs splayed out either side
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