Pets in a Pickle by Malcolm D Welshman Read Free Book Online Page B

So it was purely by accident that I bumped into the Major in the local supermarket when I was trying to decide on which ready meal to take back to Mrs Paget’s.
    I had to ask. ‘So how’s Leo?’
    ‘Well … he’s OK,’ whispered the Major, a measure of doubt in his voice. ‘Only …’ he faltered, looking round as if afraid of being overheard before beckoning me across to a less crowded spot by the freezer compartment. ‘Between you and me, he seems to have gone a bit soft in the head.’
    ‘Really? In what way?’
    ‘Well, he’s just not the same cat. Lost all that wildness. Always indoors now, forever purring round my ankles, looking for his next bowl of fresh fish.’ The hooded blue eyes gave me one of their customary stares. But there was a twinkle in them, a hint of humour. ‘I don’t consider him a Leo any more. So I’ve renamed him.’ He gave another surreptitious look round before continuing. ‘He’s now called “Cuddles”.’ With that, he gave a short harrumph, threw a couple of packs of frozen coley in his basket and hobbled off.
    I gave a sigh of relief. It was fortunate I’d been able to catch and treat the cat. With any luck there wouldn’t be a repeat performance. I reached out to tap a shelf. It was metal.
    Damn! Now where was there a wooden one?

H EAVYWEIGHT K NOCK -O UT

    O ne Friday evening, surgery was particularly hectic. Beryl apologised several times as I came through from my consulting room only to find she’d squeezed in yet another person to see. Even with the newly extended time I was allowed in Mrs Paget’s kitchen, hopes of ever getting back there to pop a lasagne or lamb stew-with-dumplings-for-one in the microwave rapidly faded. Crystal was away for the day – some advanced orthopaedics course. No doubt she’d return brimming with new techniques for joint surgery putting my nose well and truly out of it – joint-wise that is.
    Eric was on duty with me. He was just as busy, with a constant stream in and out of his consulting room. When the last animal was ushered out, Eric rolled into the office with far less customary bounce than usual and collapsed in a chair like a crumpled carrier bag.
    ‘’Struth,’ he declared, mopping his glistening forehead with a swab. ‘What did we do to deserve that, I wonder? Seemed like all of Westcott’s pets suddenly decided to take a sickie.’ He gave me a rueful grin. ‘Still, you coped OK, did you?’
    ‘Just about,’ I replied, my stomach giving a loud rumble, reminding me it was looking for its ready meal. Some hope. It was way past 7.30pm. Mrs Paget’s kitchen would now be out of bounds.
    ‘Fancy a quick jar?’ he added. ‘Mandy’s taking the phone tonight. I’ll tell her we’re just across the road. She knows I’m on duty so she can get me on my mobile. Come on. We both need to unwind a bit.’ He paused and gave me an encouraging look, one eyebrow curled. ‘So what do you say?’
    Five minutes later saw us sitting round a table in the Woolpack, each with a lager and a large Cornish pasty in front of us. The pub was situated a stone’s throw from Prospect House on the other side of what was euphemistically called ‘The Green’. ‘Green’ was a bit of a misnomer for this worn patch of parkland, now parched and burnt brown with the blistering summer we were having and coupled with a hosepipe ban – the only sprinkling it was getting was from the dogs peeing on it. The Green was bordered on three sides by busy roads, constantly choked with traffic, so taking the air usually meant taking in lungfuls of fumes. The Woolpack’s sign of a shepherd with a lamb slung over his shoulder harked back to the days when sheep still grazed at its front door and shepherds still ploughed in for their ploughman’s. Now the only reference to ‘shepherds’ was with the ‘pie’ on the menu board and any mention of ‘fleece’ was in reference to the exorbitant bar prices.
    Eric took a hearty swig of his lager and wiped his