Pets in a Pickle (15 page)

‘What’s this about dogs?’ It was Eric. He’d bounded in, somewhat breathless.

‘We we talking about the oak on the Green,’ said Beryl.

‘Oh, that old thing. Absolute menace. Should have been chopped down yonks ago.’

I saw Beryl’s eye contract, her lips followed suit; she was clearly squaring up for battle. ‘Er … Eric …’ I said, in an attempt to forestall a confrontation but Eric had got the wind behind him and was in full sail.

He looked from Beryl to me. ‘In fact, that’s why I’m late. There’s some nutters from the local history society parading round out there with banners, blocking the road, causing a traffic jam. Absolute waste of time if you ask me.’

‘I was about to,’ said Beryl, the tone of her voice decidedly cutting – it could have felled the oak in one stroke.

Oh Lord, I thought. If the tree wasn’t for the chop, then Eric certainly was.

‘You were?’ said Eric, still unaware of his impending toppling. ‘So what’s this all about?’ He took the sheet of paper Beryl had been waving at him and was just about to read it when Crystal appeared. My Julie Andrews, as always, smart, bubbly, breezing in on a cloud of delicate perfume. Gorgeous. Mum, you’ve a lot to answer for.

She intervened. ‘It’s Beryl’s petition to save the oak. I’ve already signed. Must do our bit, Eric.’

‘We certainly must, mustn’t we?’ Beryl was jabbing the biro at Eric like a rapier in a duel. ‘So you’ll sign?’

‘Of course he will,’ said Crystal, flashing her a smile.

Of course he will, I thought.

‘Of course I will,’ said Eric, snatching up the pen with a grunt and dashing off his signature – an illegible scrawl.

‘And print your name next to it,’ said Beryl, head on one side, watching him like a hawk – a one-eyed one.

He duly obliged.

In the event, he needn’t have bothered. In the last of the thunderstorms of that week, the oak was struck by lightning; it split in two, with one half collapsing on to the Green, the other leaning precariously over the road. There was no question of its preservation other than as firewood. The council were in like a bevy of beavers, the whine of their chainsaws echoing through Prospect House all morning. As the tree went out of our life so the baby squirrel came in to it.

Two young lads, wearing baseball caps and Harry Potter T-shirts brought him in. He’s been rescued from the hollow bole of the oak as the last of it was felled.

I carefully opened the shoe-box they’d slid on to the consulting table, parted the cotton wool and stared down at the vivid pink-skinned creature barely two inches long curled up inside. The most conspicuous features were the dark bulges of unopened eyes and huge, claw-like feet.

‘It was in a large sort of nest,’ chirruped one of the boys, standing on tiptoe to peer into the box.

‘But we don’t think it was a bird’s nest,’ said the other lad, leaning over his friend’s shoulder. ‘And it doesn’t look like a bird.’

‘Of course it’s not a bird,’ hissed his mate, squirming round. ‘It’s got four legs. Birds have only got two.’

‘I know that. I’m not daft.’

‘So it’s not a bird.’

‘Didn’t say it was.’

‘It’s a baby squirrel,’ I said, hastily intervening.

‘There. Told you it wasn’t a bird,’ said the shorter of the boys, looking up at his friend.

‘But you didn’t know what it was,’ he retorted.

‘Nor did you.’

‘Didn’t say I did. I just knew it wasn’t a bird.’

‘Anyone could have worked that out, dick-head.’

‘Now, now … boys. Let’s decide what we do with the squirrel, shall we?’ I tapped the side of the box. The boys fell silent and stared up at me from beneath the brims of their caps.

‘Would either of you be able to look after him?’

Both shook their heads. Hmmm – I was afraid this was going to happen. But no doubt Beryl could track down a local animal rescue centre with the expertise to rear a baby squirrel. But I hadn’t reckoned on Lucy.

‘Ah, isn’t he sweet!’ she declared as soon as she set eyes on him. All talk of rescue centres was dismissed as she set about constructing an artificial drey from an empty drugs carton with an infra-red lamp suspended above it.

‘Cyril needs two-hourly feeding to start with,’ she informed me.

‘Cyril?’

‘Cyril – squirrel. Why not?’

Hmmm. It would be Lucky Ducky and Turkey Lurky next if we weren’t too careful. Though I wouldn’t mind a juicy Lucy.

‘Paul?’

‘Sorry. Just thinking … what are you going to feed him on?’

‘Milkocat,’ said Lucy, her voice full of confidence. She brandished a tin of milk powder in front of me.

‘That’s for rearing kittens,’ I said a tad too smugly.

She glowered at me. ‘I’m well aware of that. But I’m sure it will do the trick.’

I was far from convinced. ‘And how do you propose to get the stuff into him? It’s not going to be easy.’ God, I was beginning to sound like a real Jonah.

‘With this,’ she said waving a pipette at me.

I was about to tell her that she’d find it difficult but decided I’d said enough already. Let her find out for herself.

She did. ‘Blast!’ she swore as milk shot across the squirrel’s mouth and squirted out the other side.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said looking daggers at me.

I held up my hands. ‘Didn’t say a word.’

‘Didn’t have to.’

I don’t think she really knew what I was thinking. My little juicy Lucy.

I stepped back as Mandy marched into the prep room with the usual snap and crackle of her starched uniform.

‘What’s all this?’ she said. ‘Not falling out are we? All because of a baby squirrel. Can’t have that.’ Her face was a picture of innocence.

Liar. I knew damn well she’d love to see us scrapping.

‘It’s nothing we can’t sort out,’ said Lucy.

Mandy smiled sweetly. What saccharine smugness. Pure Mandy-candy. ‘Let’s try a syringe, shall we?’

That didn’t work either. More milk seemed to spray over the squirrel’s eyes, nose and body than actually went down his throat.

‘You’re not holding him properly,’ declared Mandy after several abortive attempts.

‘Well, if you think you can do better, you hold him,’ retorted Lucy.

Uh-oh … there was that tension again, that antagonism, bubbling up between them.

Better to be out of all this, I thought and quietly tiptoed out.

‘We need a teat to suckle,’ Lucy told me when morning surgery was finished.

‘You won’t find one small enough,’ I said. I got the ‘Lucy Look’ for my efforts, her stubborn ‘don’t stand in my way’ look.

She returned after a lunchtime trip into Westcott, her mood buoyant, her voice distinctly triumphant. ‘This is the answer.’ She waved a baby doll’s feeding set at me.

I remained unconvinced until I saw the baby rodent, curled up fast asleep, his stomach full, bulging out like a white balloon. Full marks to Lucy then. But she hadn’t finished.

‘You know that cat down in the ward … the one that’s just had kittens?’

‘Er … yes.’

‘She’s boarding for a while, isn’t she?’

‘You’d need to check with Beryl, but I think she’s in for a couple of weeks. Why?’

‘Oh, it’s just something I’ve been reading up on.’ Lucy tapped the open book she’d borrowed from the hospital library as she sat drinking her afternoon mug of tea. ‘Says here how an orphaned squirrel was fostered on to a cat with kittens.’

‘Lucy, I don’t somehow think …’

That look came into her eyes again. Useless for me to say any more.

With Cyril lined up alongside the three kittens lying next to their mother, I unwisely expressed my doubts again. This wasn’t going to work; the cat would surely snap at the baby squirrel and pull it away. ‘Shhhh …’ was all I got from Lucy as we watched the mother give her kittens a protective lick. She then sniffed the squirrel. Lucy’s hand hovered just inches away, ready to snatch Cyril up in case he was attacked. There was another tentative sniff … then another as the cat’s head lowered towards the wriggling pink body.

‘Lucy …’

‘Shhhhhh …’

Suddenly the cat’s tongue darted out; the naked squirrel was lightly touched and then fervently licked as the cat started washing him. Lick … lick … lick. Back and forth went the tongue over the tiny, pink body, transferring scent. Cyril had been accepted.

Now there was the question of getting Cyril to suckle. Cats’ nipples are large. A squirrel’s mouth small, the jaws quite rigid and with two large-pointed bottom incisors already well developed. This was going to be no easy task. But then Lucy still had that look so …

He was suckling 20 minutes later.

Within three days, his eyes opened.

‘You’ll really have to watch him now,’ I warned.

Cyril scrabbled up the side of the cat basket using his large claws to grip. Once on top, he tottered along, rolling from side to side like a drunken sailor, his tail trailing behind him.

This task became easier as he grew stronger. You’d see him scuttling along the top of the basket, his tail now curled over his back, his gait less rolling now that he’d gained strength in his muscles. Soon he was moving like an adult squirrel – wild, erratic, a sudden stop, a dash in another direction.

One morning as I was doing my ward round, Lucy let the mother cat out of her kennel to allow her to stretch her legs. Cyril also slipped out and zig-zagged up and down the corridor. I guess something in his jerky movements triggered an instinctive reaction in the cat. For I suddenly saw her tense, crouch, eyes wide open, ears flat against her head, the tip of her tail twitching. There was no doubt as to her intentions – she was about to pounce, and Cyril was going to be her victim. He, oblivious to his impending demise, had stopped to have a good scratch. Then he was off again, darting down the ward. It was all too much for the cat, who suddenly leapt into the air, claws outstretched.

‘Lucy!’ I cried.

She was at the sink, washing bowls, her back to the unfolding drama. At my shout, she spun round, just as the cat sailed past her. With a loud crash, the bowl she was holding dropped from her soapy hands to the floor. It startled the cat sufficiently for her to misjudge her leap. She skidded past Cyril. Then Lucy pounced, throwing herself on the cat and skilfully pinning her down, while the bowl spun down the corridor, ringing against the metal doors of the kennels.

Cyril skittered through the bars of a kennel housing a bewildered Westie who immediately started yapping, joined in seconds by the howls and yowls of several other startled dogs.

Into this cacophony walked Crystal. She stood, hands on hips, at the end of the corridor. Her voice sliced through the air. ‘What on earth is going on down here?’

It was if someone had flicked a switch. The barking died away immediately. The Westie gave two additional, hesitant woofs and then he, too, fell silent with a nervous gulp.

Crystal clipped down the corridor until level with me. ‘Well, Paul? Perhaps you can explain.’ She stared at me intently.

Oh, those eyes of hers. Those cornflower-blue eyes … such beautiful eyes … such … well, actually, they now looked rather thunderous. The sort of blue seen in clouds about to hit you between the eyes with a heavy burst of hail.

‘Er … well … it was the squirrel,’ I responded in a hoarse whisper, pointing down at Cyril who’d come hopping up to Crystal’s ankles.

Oh, what lovely ankles … so finely turned … such delicate feet. Pink-lacquered toes peeping from sandals like blushing maids all in a row. More like a string of nuts to judge from the keen interest Cyril was taking in them. And nuts were for eating. Oh no … those razor-sharp teeth of his.

Crystal looked down and took a genteel step to the side. Phew.

‘Oh, yes. This squirrel. Time it was found a home, don’t you think? We don’t want it taking up unnecessary space. Or too much of our staff’s time.’

So there we had it – Crystal clear.

Time for Cyril to move on. I had to admit there was no excuse for him staying as he was now eating and drinking of his own accord. But where was he to go?

I had a sneaking feeling a decision had already been made. That ‘look’ on Lucy’s face said it all. When I hesitantly suggested one or two rescue centres based in West Sussex or Westcott’s Wildlife Park, the ‘look’ intensified.

‘But we’re stuffed to overflowing,’ I said as the words ‘Willow Wren’ were finally voiced by Lucy. ‘Where could we put him?’

‘He could go in with the two pheasants and the one-legged crow.’

‘The mesh isn’t rodent-proof.’

‘You could soon fix that.’

‘Me?’

‘You.’ She gave me her Lucy Look.

I fixed the mesh the next day and Cyril moved in the day after. He was greeted with a few squawks from the pheasants; and the crow gave him a funny, Beryl-like stare. But ruffled feathers were soon smoothed and the quartet settled down to a summer together.

Cyril became quite addicted to the pelleted chicken feed on offer. And he certainly became very tame. ‘Sweet, isn’t he?’ said Lucy, standing in the aviary with Cyril on her shoulder.