Pets in a Pickle (29 page)

‘I’m having problems with it,’ confessed Mr Thomson, placing the white box on the table. ‘Wondered if you could help.’

I gulped. ‘Well … I don’t really know much about spiders. In fact, nothing at all. I don’t think …’

Mr Thomson raised his hairy hand, the sleeve of his jacket straining over the swell of well-developed biceps. ‘I’d like a professional opinion anyway.’

‘Of course,’ I demurred as the biceps rippled.

He opened the box and the spider slithered on to the table. ‘You don’t have to be a vet to see it’s not well.’

I had to agree. The tarantula lay on its back, its legs closed over its bulbous abdomen. If ever a spider looked sick, that tarantula did. But what the hell was I supposed to do with it? Listen to its chest? Palpate its abdomen? Take its temperature? Ah … I marched over to the trolley and whipped the thermometer from its pot of disinfectant.

‘Blimey …’ gulped Mr Thomson, his eyes on stalks, ‘you’re not going to …’

‘No… no …’ I shook my head. The intention was to use the thermometer to prod the spider, see if there were any signs of life. I was rewarded with a slight tremor of the legs. Unless the tarantula was doing a terminal knees-up, there was life in it yet. I flicked it over and gingerly examined it closer. The spider’s coat of fine bristles had lost their black lustre. They looked lifeless, dry.

‘Interesting,’ I murmured, running the tip of the thermometer along its back. ‘See? There seems to be a hairline crack down its back.’ Something from my school biology days stirred in my memory. I turned to Mr Thomson. ‘Has the spider been acting strange at all in the past couple of days?’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, for example, hiding under a stone or the like.’

‘Now you come to mention it, yes it has. Thought it was ’cos it was ill.’

‘It’s no illness,’ I said, straightening up. ‘It’s ecdysis.’

Mr Thomson’s wind-etched features creased in concern. He scraped his hand across the dark stubble on his chin. ‘Sounds serious.’

‘No, not really. The tarantula’s sloughing. As you may know, spiders don’t have skeletons like us but moult, casting off their old exoskeletons.’ My biology notes came flooding back. I spouted on, clearly impressing Mr Thomson … and myself.

He phoned the next day to confirm that the exoskeleton had completely split and a new, gleaming, altogether larger tarantula had crawled out.

‘Just wait ’til you see him,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘He’s huge.’

I shuddered, hoping that wait would be a very long time.

Meanwhile, Beryl wasn’t waiting, bless her black, woolly stockings. She seemed determined to whip up more exotics for me and I did wonder whether she was systematically going through the West Sussex telephone directories, cold-calling people to see if they had any unusual pets that needed treating. It didn’t surprise me, therefore, when she rubbed her liver-spotted hands together, bounced up and down on her stool and crowed, ‘Paul, I’ve got a treat in store for you. A Mr Patel is bringing in a snake.’

I felt my heart constrict as if a boa – and not of the feather variety – had already slid round it.

‘I knew you’d be pleased,’ she added.

Pleased? She thought I’d be pleased? What a load of cobras.

No one was around when Mr Patel turned up for his appointment. Funny that. Beryl was conveniently in the loo while Mandy and Lucy suddenly disappeared into the depths of Prospect House.

‘You’re all namby-pambies,’ I said to myself, echoing Eric’s sentiments. ‘There’s nothing to be scared of.’ But then why were my legs trembling so much as I ushered Mr Patel in?

I’d had visions of a slim, brown-silk skinned, turban-headed man, flute under one arm, carrying an Ali Baba basket; but that was just me being silly. The turbaned Mr Patel didn’t have a flute. The Ali Baba basket he was carrying he lifted on to the consulting table and pushed towards me. In the absence of fluted music to entice whatever was in the basket out, I suggested Mr Patel did the honours with his hands.

‘No sweat, mate,’ he said in a breezy cockney accent and lifted the lid to pull out coil after coil of snake.

My throat went into spasm. ‘Big, isn’t it?’ I croaked and backed away as the snake weaved across the table towards me, knocking the basket to one side.

‘Quite a size … 2.1 metres to be precise … though anacondas can grow much bigger.’ Mr Patel grasped a coil of gleaming snake, its dark green, black-spotted flanks twisting in his hands, dragging him on to the table. ‘He’s a strong lad,’ he added as he pulled at the snake, making the table and snake lurch forward while I lurched back. ‘Sid’s a bit frisky. Should have put him in the fridge before coming. It would have quietened him down.’ He jerked the snake’s head away from my coat pocket.

Sid flicked out his tongue before, with a smooth, gliding movement, he slithered over Mr Patel’s wrist and proceeded to advance up his arm, wrapping himself round and round as he inched up to his shoulder.

I didn’t have to ask what was wrong, it was all too obvious. Protruding from Sid’s mouth was a plug – an ordinary, white, 13-amp, three-pin plug.

‘How come?’ I asked, pointing a shaky finger.

‘Not sure, to be honest. But I think it was probably the rat I gave him last night. Guess some of the blood must have spilt on his heating pan.’

‘You mean …?’

‘’Fraid so, mate. He’s swallowed the pad. And I can’t pull the damned thing out. See?’ Mr Patel yanked at the plug, an inch of flex appeared, but no more. ‘Bugger, ain’t it?’

‘Stop!’ I said hastily. ‘You might rip his stomach open.’

‘Me thinks you might have to do that to get it out.’

‘Maybe,’ I murmured, desperately trying to decide what to do for the best. Anacondas and the like were well known for being able to devour whole pigs in one go. The heating pad would be a mere snack in comparison. ‘How long was the flex?’

Mr Patel scratched his turban. ‘Oh … must have been about a metre or so.’

‘And you say Sid’s about two metres plus? Uhm. Well, there’s an outside chance the pad could pass through.’

‘But with the plug on, surely not?’

‘No, no. I’ll snip that off,’ I said and reached for the nail scissors.

Beryl flew off her perch when Mr Patel re-entered reception with his creaking basket and it was left to me to book an appointment for a week’s time.

The situation hadn’t changed much when next I saw him except that the flex had now disappeared.

‘Well at least it must be moving through,’ I commented. But I wasn’t too happy. Sid was due for another of his weekly meals but so far had turned his nose up at the rat that had been offered him. ‘Let’s get an X-ray just to see what’s going on.’

‘More like what’s going through, eh?’ joked Mr Patel, sounding remarkably unperturbed by the whole incident as I ushered him into the waiting room.

‘Who’s going to help?’ My question echoed down an empty corridor. Somewhere I heard the clatter of feet and a door slam. There was a muffled cough behind the closed door of the office. Oh, so we were all playing hide-and-seek now, were we? Peek-a-boo … I’ve a snake for you.

There was the skid of tyres on the gravel, the roar of an engine dying. Sounded like Crystal had arrived back from visiting one of her special clients.

‘So what have you got there, Paul?’ she asked, sailing into reception and looking at the wicker basket I was about to drag down to the X-ray room. ‘Your washing?’

The basket hissed and rattled. I explained.

‘He sounds a bit lively to me,’ said Crystal. ‘Perhaps we ought to pop him in the fridge for a while. Get him cooled down a bit and then get him X-rayed. I’d be happy to help. Haven’t seen an anaconda in ages.’

Well, this was a first, having Crystal help me out. Go for it, Paul. Go for it. I did, clearing space in the fridge and squeezing the basket between the shelves before returning to the office to find Crystal talking to Beryl. She broke off her conversation as I entered.

‘Beryl tells me you’ve been seeing quite a few exotics lately,’ she said, smiling at me. Ah, that smile … those rosy lips … that cupid bow. So like a … a prolapsed rectum sprang to mind. Oh really, Paul, that’s disgusting.

‘You’ve had a skink with a prolapsed rectum,’ Crystal was saying.

‘Oh, yes,’ I said, taking a deep breath. Get a grip man.

‘And a tarantula.’

I nodded, looking across at Beryl who had turned a whiter shade of pale. Spiders, snakes and the like were definitely not her cup of tea. Talking of which …

‘Good idea,’ said Crystal when Beryl suggested making one. ‘I’d love a cup.’

The scream that emanated from the kitchen had both Crystal and I leaping from our seats. Oh my God – Beryl. Our thoughts were as one. Tea … milk … fridge … snake! Beryl staggered in, trembling like jelly, a hand covering the right side of her face.

‘Here, sit down,’ said Crystal, easing her into a chair.

‘It was such a shock,’ uttered Beryl, shaking her head. ‘I opened the fridge door and there it was. Coiled round the semi-skimmed. I just didn’t expect it.’

‘No, of course not,’ said Crystal. ‘You can blame me for that. It was my idea. So sorry.’ She put an arm round Beryl’s shoulder and patted it. ‘Can I get you anything? ‘

Beryl, the hand still covering half her face said, ‘I wouldn’t mind a cigarette.’ She looked up at Crystal with her good eye. ‘If that’s all right with you.’

I saw Crystal’s arm quickly retract from her shoulder. Wow. Beryl was pushing her luck a bit. There was a strictly ‘no smoking’ policy in the hospital and Beryl knew it. Guess she was just playing the sympathy card. It worked.

‘I’ll get your bag,’ said Crystal after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Up in reception, is it?’

‘Ah, that’s better,’ sighed Beryl once she’d lit up. She tilted her head back and a plume of smoke poured from each nostril. She might have felt better but she certainly didn’t look better. There was still fear etched in her face, a sort of wildness. For a moment, I couldn’t put my finger on it. There was no trembling; that had stopped. Her complexion had returned to its normal, pan-pasted colour. No, it was something about the eyes. Yes, that was it. The eyes – or, to be more precise, the whites of the eyes. Or to be even more precise, the white of her right eye. That was all one could see. A ball of white.

I remember Eric telling me over a drink at the Woolpack that, when unduly stressed, Beryl’s false eye was liable to drop out. Had the sight of the snake precipitated such a fallout? Was her glass eye at that moment rolling round the kitchen? Or worse still, had it fallen in the milk and was now rattling round the bottom of the carton?

Crystal had also noticed and was staring slack-jawed.

I leaned forward and studied Beryl’s face more intently, deciding that the eyeball was still in situ after all. Only it had swivelled back to front.

‘What are you gawping at?’ she snapped, jerking her head back. It was an action that caused the glass eye to rotate back into partial view. It gave Beryl a severe sharp-angled squint as if she was attempting to peer up her right nostril.

‘Err … nothing … nothing …’ I muttered, ‘just seeing if you were OK.’ I hadn’t the courage to look her in the eye – her good one – and tell her. She’d have to see for herself later.

‘OK then,’ said Crystal, looking at her watch, ‘let’s get cracking on that snake before appointments start.’

The anaconda was half out of the basket, draped across a couple of packs of dog food; but the coolness of the fridge had quickly brought it to a halt. Between us we hoiked out the coils of snake and arranged them in a heap on the X-ray table.

‘This is going to be a bit of guesswork,’ said Crystal, stretching Sid out and pushing an X-ray plate under him, sliding it up and down. ‘Any ideas, Paul?’

Hey. What was this? Crystal asking me? Snakes alive. This was a first. I put a hand on either side of the snake’s flanks, starting at the neck end, gradually working my way down, gently squeezing as I went. Two thirds of the way down I felt what I thought was some resistance. Could have been the heating pad. Whatever, it was a starting point for X-raying. It took three plates before the pad was eventually highlighted.

Crystal stood in front of the X-ray clipped to the viewing screen, finger and thumb under her chin. ‘So what do you think? Do you want to operate?’

Hey. She was at it again. Crystal Sharpe, veterinary surgeon par excellence, asking me for my views. Me – an assistant who had barely progressed from expressing anal glands, was now being asked to express his opinions. I was tempted to say, ‘Yes. Let’s operate.’ After all, it would have been fascinating to carry out surgery on a snake – especially one of this size. But I hesitated. Could that just be self-interest? What about the interests of Sid? It would be much better for him if we could avoid operating. ‘Liquid paraffin often works wonders,’ I found myself saying.

Crystal swung round and looked at me. Oh, those cornflower blue eyes again. That delicate scent which filled my nostrils. I recoiled – much as the anaconda was starting to do as he warmed up.

‘You reckon it’s worth a try then?’ she said. ‘Uhm … OK, fair enough. Now where are those nurses? Never around when you want them.’ She strode out into the corridor and called, ‘Mandy?’