Pets in a Pickle (24 page)

The main road from the Downs heading north skirted Ashton. You had to turn off down a slip road to reach the village. Never a problem to come off the road, but certainly one to get on it, especially first thing in the morning when trying to get out from the T-junction, a constant stream of commuter traffic heading south for Westcott making the wait at the junction a frustrating one. And dangerous. Oncoming cars to the left dipped out of sight before reaching the junction so that many a time you thought it was clear to shoot out only to have a car blasting its horn up your rear as you pulled away.

Seems something like that had happened now. As I slowed to turn off, there were two cars parked to the side of the junction, a knot of people huddled between them. One was the cassocked figure of Reverend James, crouched on the ground, his hands clasped together. Oh dear, surely he wasn’t administering the last rites to someone. He looked up, caught sight of me, jumped to his feet and started to flail his arms above his head. I had no choice but to draw in behind them and stop.

‘Ah, Mr Mitchell. How fortuitous of you to have arrived at this precise moment in time considering the gravity of the situation we have on our hands,’ said James in a torrent of words as I approached. ‘There’s been a most unfortunate accident. Most unfortunate. A dear little cat’s been run over. Mrs Spencer here saw it happen.’ He pointed to Joan who was kneeling by the cat, stroking its head.

‘I was just on my way back to the post office,’ she said as I crouched down beside her. ‘I think it’s the little tortoiseshell that’s been hanging round here this last week or so.’

She was right. It was the cat that only yesterday had been curled up, blissfully purring on my lap and who now laid sprawled on the side of the road, blood seeping from under her.

‘Reckon she’s a goner,’ declared one of the bystanders.

Reverend James leaped forward, his cassock flapping vigorously as another car shot past in a whistle of wind. ‘I think the cat’s condition should be ascertained by someone who has the professional ability to carry out the necessary …’ Further words were drowned by the roar of a juggernaut that came thundering over the brow of the hill. But the gist of what he had been saying was clear and I was allowed to examine the tortoiseshell cat without further comment.

There was blood coming from her mouth, her pupils were dilated, the eyes glazed and the breathing irregular. But at least she was still alive. She seemed a fighter. This was going to be a severe test for her.

The driver of the car that had hit her – a smart young man in suit and tie – offered to take the cat to the hospital. I thanked him but said I’d take her back myself and phoned Prospect House to warn them I was coming in with an RTA. But the line was busy.

When I arrived, I was greeted by an agitated Beryl. ‘Oh, Paul, thank goodness you’re back,’ she said in a hoarse whisper, hand cupped characteristically over the side of her mouth. ‘Crystal’s had to make an emergency visit to Lady Derwent. She’s asked if you’d cover her appointments until she gets back. Two have arrived early. They’re in the waiting room now.’

It was my turn to become agitated. I had the tortoiseshell cat in the back of the car. She really had to take priority. I charged down the corridor hollering for Lucy. It was Mandy who appeared first from the prep room, Lucy close behind her.

‘What’s the problem,’ said Mandy, bustling forward.

‘An RTA … a cat.’ I looked over her shoulder at Lucy. ‘It’s that little tortoiseshell. She’s on a blanket in the back of my car.’

‘I’ll get her,’ said Lucy, pushing past both of us with alacrity.

By the time we’d got the cat in the prep room and a drip set up for her, two more of Crystal’s clients had arrived. I could hear Beryl apologising for the delay in being seen. The cat remained flat out, unconscious. The bleeding from the mouth was due to a broken tooth, nothing too serious. I quickly palpated her limbs – no breaks detected. But there was a grating noise from the pelvic area as I lifted her hindquarters. ‘I’m going to have to get that X-rayed after I’ve seen Crystal’s appointments,’ I said before dashing out.

When I returned half-an-hour later, I found it had just been done.

‘Seeing how busy you are, I thought it would save time,’ said Mandy chirpily. ‘I’ve taken a ventro-dorsal view of the pelvis and a lateral of the spine. Lucy’s developing them now.’

For a moment, I was dumbstruck. Surely Mandy had overstepped the mark here? After all, I hadn’t given instructions as to what X-rays to take. Not that they would have been any different. Perhaps then I should be admiring her for taking the initiative?

Mandy went on, ‘Crystal often lets me X-ray her cases when she’s pushed for time.’ She gave me one of her doe-eyed stares, brimming with defiance.

Maybe, I thought, but not without full instructions first. I was about to make a comment but decided it was wiser not to as, just then, the darkroom door opened and Lucy emerged. ‘The X-rays are ready,’ she said quietly.

‘Then bring them out, please,’ said Mandy. ‘We’re waiting to see them.’

I noticed the royal “we”. It gave me an inkling of what was bugging Lucy.

I could see Lucy bite her bottom lip as she turned back into the darkroom and re-emerged holding two radiographs.

Mandy snatched them from her and clipped them up on the viewing screen. ‘Hmm … just as I suspected,’ she said, studying them closely, ‘multiple fractures of the pelvis.’

‘Er … excuse me, Mandy, may I?’ I stepped forward and started looking at the X-rays myself. The lateral view of the spine revealed no obvious damage to the spinal vertebrae, though this didn’t rule out the possibility of spinal trauma as nerves could still be crushed without the damage being seen on an X-ray. Did Mandy know that?

Seems she did, since she said, ‘That doesn’t mean to say there’s no damage to the spinal cord.’

Grrr. As to the pelvis, Mandy was right there, too – there were multiple fractures. Another grrr. Talk about nerves. This little madam was certainly beginning to get on mine.

But I had to let that go for now. We – I mean,
I
– had a cat with a paralysed back. The bystander’s words came back to me – ‘Reckon she’s a goner …’ For a moment, I did wonder. Was I being unkind to keep her alive? Then I remembered Mrs Munroe’s corgi. That had seemed a hopeless case with the X-ray showing a vertebra dislocated upwards, crushing the spinal cord and causing complete paralysis of the hindquarters. Yet Mrs Munroe had insisted on giving the dog a chance. And though it took over six weeks, he did manage to walk again.

The trouble was, here the little tortoiseshell cat didn’t have anyone to champion her cause – no owner to support her. No one but us to help nurse her through the difficult days and weeks ahead.

‘Doesn’t look too good,’ said Mandy, still looking at the X-rays.

‘I think we should give her a chance,’ Lucy suddenly declared.

Mandy turned on her. ‘She’ll take a lot of nursing. There’ll be no bladder control. So that will have to be emptied manually each day. And she’s bound to get constipated. It could take weeks before we see any improvement.’ From her tone, it was clear she was far from enthusiastic about the idea.

‘I still think it’s worth a go,’ said Lucy, her voice suddenly filling with determination. ‘Even if you don’t.’

That’s my girl, I thought. You go for it.

Mandy whirled round on me, her cheeks flushed, eyes questioning. Now, of course, I was in no doubt as to what to say. And I said it with glee. ‘We’ll try.’

As expected, the job of looking after the tortoiseshell cat was delegated to Lucy – no surprises there. But she didn’t seem to mind, even though it was an onerous task and time-consuming.

I watched one such session. The cat’s bladder manually expressed, the faecal boluses carefully manipulated out, the hindquarters washed down, dried and dusted with talcum powder. It was done with quiet efficiency, no sign of emotion, no sentiments expressed.

‘Sweet little thing, isn’t she?’ I said, hoping to provoke some response. But no … Lucy just got on with the task without comment.

‘No one’s claimed her, you know.’ Actually, Lucy did know. I was just reminding her of the fact. Joan Spencer had put a card up in the post office and Reverend James had mentioned her at the end of one of his sermons. Bless him. But nobody had come forward, though several people reported they’d been visited by her for short periods. No one, it seems, had come up to her expectations.

‘Yet she’s so friendly,’ I persisted. ‘Can’t imagine she’s a feral cat.’

Still no response from Lucy.

Three days after the accident, the tortoiseshell cat was strong enough to lift herself up on her front legs. During my morning ward rounds, I’d tickle her whiskers and she’d respond by rubbing her head against my fingers, purring loudly.

By the end of the week, she’d peed of her own accord. I caught Lucy recording the fact on the cat’s clinical card.

‘Why, that’s marvellous,’ I exclaimed.

‘It’s a start,’ she replied, her voice devoid of emotion.

Over the ensuing days, the reflexes in the cat’s back legs returned. She twisted round to look when I pricked the skin of her rump. She began to flick her tail – until now it had been limp, without the slightest bit of movement.

‘Great,’ I enthused. ‘She’s on the mend.’

‘But we’re not out of the woods yet,’ remarked Lucy, glancing down the ward to where Mandy was busying herself preparing medications, pretending not to listen in.

That glance said it all. Of course, how stupid not to have realised. This was a test case; Lucy was out to prove herself, desperate to see the cat to pull through, willing it to happen. But she didn’t want to let her feelings be known, hence the detached attitude, the apparent lack of interest. It was all an elaborate smoke screen.

And I’d deduced that all from one glance? Well, possibly not. Maybe I was being too clever, reading too much into it.

When the tortoiseshell cat finally managed to stagger to her feet, I saw it happen and let out a hoot of joy. ‘Yippee,’ I cried, ‘she’s made it, Luce.’

The cat, trembling, was standing, her hindquarters leaning against the cage wall for support, but nevertheless standing. I was pleased for her and Lucy.

‘So I see,’ said Lucy, scribbling the details on the cat’s card, impassive as ever.

When the cat started tottering a few steps, the inevitable question arose. Space was needed in the ward. The cat needed somewhere to convalesce. Now here was the acid test – was the boil just about to be lanced?

‘Well, how about it?’ I asked Lucy.

‘It’s up to you. It’s your cottage.’

‘Nonsense. You’re part and parcel of it.’

‘That’s just it, Paul … I don’t feel that way. There or here. Especially here.’ The ‘here’ of that particular moment was the prep room where Mandy had instructed Lucy to make up the next day’s sets of instruments for surgery and get them autoclaved. The pressure in the autoclave was fast building, and so, too, were the feelings in Lucy to judge from her face which had gone very white, two red blotches appearing on each cheek. Tears glistened on her long eyelashes. ‘I sometimes think I’m just taken for granted … a general dogsbody at the beck and call of everyone.’ With a sob, Lucy made for the door. I stepped across and barred her way.

‘Now listen, Luce … you’ve got it all wrong. There’s no way you’re just taken for granted. You’re very much needed by me and by the hospital.’ I gripped her shoulders and stared into her hazel eyes. ‘But especially by me. You have to believe that, OK?’

A tear began to roll down her cheek.

I lifted a finger and gently wiped it away. ‘And I’m not the only one that needs you,’ I whispered. ‘There’s a certain little tortoiseshell cat whose life you’ve helped to save – despite the odds stacked against her.’ And despite Mandy’s misgivings, I said to myself, ‘That cat still needs you, you know. In just the same way I still need you.’

I pulled her to me and kissed the tears away; and was just planting my lips firmly on hers when Eric bounced in.

‘Whoops, sorry,’ he said. ‘Bit hot in here.’ And he bounced out.

But the deed had been done. The boil was lanced. All the bad feelings had been drained out.

The tortoiseshell cat came home.

Lucy seemed happier now; she’d made her point, had taken a stance against Mandy and won. Yet even so, I felt our relationship wasn’t what it was. That initial spark had dimmed somewhat. I was still nuts about the girl, but I felt my feelings weren’t reciprocated quite so strongly.

‘Perhaps I’m just imagining it,’ I said addressing the tortoiseshell cat as she sat looking out of the French windows.

It was another gem of a day. Trees had now turned to burnished gold and brown; crisp leaves danced in whorls on the patio.

Despite having three cats and Nelson in the cottage, the tortoiseshell had remained distant from them. She displayed an indifference that in a human would be considered sullenness. Perhaps the cat, too, was depressed, frustrated that she could only hobble about with a limp, her right hind leg withered; certainly she didn’t move far – her favourite spot was by the French windows, gazing out. Perhaps she yearned to escape. Perhaps Lucy did as well, feeling mentally, if not physically, crippled? She was certainly sullen. No, really, Paul … you’re just being fanciful, letting your imagination run away with you.