Pets in a Pickle (8 page)

She was lying stretched out on the kitchen floor; Brenda, sitting squashed alongside in the narrow galley, was wedged between the dog and a washing machine. I put my black bag down on the work-top and crouched down by Peggy’s head. Her lips curled back in their customary grin and her tail thumped on the vinyl, but there was no attempt to get up.

‘Now, now, Peggy my girl … no need to worry.’ I gave the Labrador a gentle pat on the head as Bernie leaned over me, his ears jiggling with anxiety. ‘We just need to find out what’s wrong with you.’ I levered myself up in the confined space. ‘Now, Bernie, if you could just move back a bit. And you, Brenda, I just need to squeeze past.’

‘OK, yes … right.’ Brenda struggled to her feet. There was much grunting and shifting of flesh as I squeezed myself between the lumbering Adams feeling that, at any minute, I might be pulped before I managed to slip through, stepping over the dog to sink down over her hindquarters. I felt as if I’d just been swimming with a pod of whales especially when Brenda began to blubber, her shoulders heaving, asking if Peggy was going to be all right.

I elicited from Bernie that Peggy had been fine the night before and that they’d found her like this when they’d surfaced this morning. Moby Dick swam before my eyes as the words spouted from him. I quickly turned my attention to Peggy in an attempt to fathom out what was wrong with her. The poor dog was then subjected to much prodding, pummelling and poking. A right hind here … a left hind there … up a bit … down a bit … rotated both around a bit. It was a hokey-pokey of an examination throughout which Peggy just lay there, grinning. No grunt of pain. No squeal. Nothing. This wasn’t what it was all about. I needed a diagnosis.

I began to panic – the situation was turning into a dog’s dinner. It was hot as an oven in there, the three of us gleaming like roasted potatoes with a Yorkshire pudding that had failed to rise at our feet.

‘Let’s try getting her to stand,’ I said. No mean task considering the confines within which we were working.

Much huffing and puffing and further large movements of flesh followed – the Adams’ flesh in particular.

And a fat lot of good it did, too.

We got Peggy on to her feet only for her to skid on the vinyl floor, her claws skittering in all directions … and then down she sank again.

‘We need a less slippery surface,’ I wailed; Flipper had nothing on the way I was beginning to feel. ‘Your lounge perhaps?

Bernie shook his head. ‘No better in there. It’s got wooden floors.’

‘Bedroom?’

‘The same.’

I felt myself getting hotter and hotter; we had to do something. No way could the dog be left where she was, sprawled out like a lump of dough – lounging about on the kitchen floor.

Brenda butted in. ‘Perhaps if we could get her down into the garden, that might get her moving. She loves sniffing round the tables looking for the odd dropped crisp. What do you think?’

Bernie snorted, harpooning her idea with one look. ‘Just how do you think we’ll get her down there. Crane?’ He glowered at her. She glowered back. I could feel the heat rising between them. I felt I had to smother the tension before we had a volcanic eruption on our hands. I interrupted, ‘A blanket?’

They both turned and stared at me. ‘What?’ they chorused.

‘We could try a blanket as a sling to get her down the stairs.’

There was another snort from Bernie.

‘Well, it’s worth a try,’ said Brenda.

Bernie grimaced. ‘’Spose so,’ he said with distinct lack of conviction.

‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ thundered Brenda, storming off to return moments later with a duvet cover. ‘It’s the best I can do,’ she said apologetically as she handed it across to me.

Once we had managed to lever Peggy on to the cover, we slid her out on to the landing and, with me at the front, holding one end of the duvet cover, Bernie at the other, Peggy stretchered between us, we began the descent of the stairs. My fingers, tightly entwined in each corner of the cover, started to go numb. Any minute I thought Peggy would roll forward, knock me flying and pulverise me at the bottom; but we made it without anyone getting puréed in the process.

In the garden, we hoisted Peggy to her feet again. This time she remained standing for nearly a minute, her hind legs trembling violently, her sides like bellows, heaving with the exertion. Then she dropped, crashing on to the concrete in a mass of quivering flesh.

I began to despair.

‘Look, I’ve an idea,’ said Brenda. ‘Just wait here a minute.’

‘Well, we’re hardly likely to go anywhere,’ muttered Bernie giving her another dark look.

She returned waving a packet of crisps at us. ‘They’re Peggy’s favourite. Smoky bacon.’ She took one out and held it in front of the dog’s nose. There was the sharp snap of jaws as the crisp disappeared in one doggy gulp. ‘Nothing wrong with your appetite, girl,’ she said dangling another crisp just out of reach. Peggy grizzled and gave one of her lop-sided grins, straining her neck forward; but she stayed splayed out, trembling.

‘You know, it could be something quite simple like cramp,’ I said kneeling down next to Peggy’s quivering hindquarters. I began to knead the muscles in her right thigh. After a few minutes, I switched to her left leg. Peggy lay there, sighing, seeming to relish the pummelling.

‘Right. Let’s get her on her pins again,’ I finally declared.

With no messing about, Peggy suddenly found herself yanked into a standing position with Brenda flourishing the crisp packet in front of her. ‘Come on, sweetie. Have another crisp.’

‘If you want one, you’ll bloody well have to go and get it or else,’ growled Bernie, his voice full of menace. The grin on Peggy’s lips evaporated. She licked her lips. ‘Well, go on then. Move yourself, you great fat mutt.’ He raised his foot. ‘Move.’

Peggy flinched and swayed like a rocking horse off its rockers … gave one tentative step forward … then waddled up to Brenda and buried her head in the crisp packet.

‘See. Just needed a bit of persuasion,’ said Bernie as Peggy rapidly hoovered out the contents of the crisp packet and looked round for more.

Diet time for you, matey, I thought. A low-calorie diet. No titbits, and weigh-ins on the platform scales at Prospect House.

Several weeks passed but the drop in weight I was looking for just didn’t happen.

I complained to Bernie, ‘Are you sure you’re being strict about her diet?’

‘Absolutely,’ he declared. ‘See here.’ He showed me a booklet in which there were neat columns headed by days of the week, below which the types of food and amounts given were itemised.

Yet still Peggy’s girth refused to shrink. Bernie and Brenda’s enthusiasm for the regime, or rather Peggy’s lack of it, began to wane. The weekly weigh-ins became erratic. Consultations were missed … excuses were made.

It must have been a couple of months later when Eric and I were again over at the Woolpack after yet another hectic Friday evening surgery.

Bernie was quick to apologise as Eric ordered a couple of lagers. ‘Sorry. We’ve let things slip a bit,’ he confessed. ‘Being summer and all that … we’re just so busy.’

‘What was that all about?’ queried Eric as we settled at a table.

‘See for yourself,’ I replied as Peggy waddled into view from behind the bar and came over to Eric with the usual lop-sided grin on her face.

‘Hello, Fatso,’ he said reaching down to give her ears a tickle.

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘She’s supposed to have been on a diet and lost weight.’

‘Fighting a losing battle, I’d say.’

Peggy shuffled off in search of customers willing to hand over a crisp or peanut in return for a sloppy grin of thanks. There were plenty on hand. I watched as another mouthful of calories was swallowed.

‘You need a new strategy,’ added Eric, downing his lager. ‘Let’s give it some thought. Drink up and I’ll get another round in.’

By the time we’d finished our second pint we’d come up with a plan – a good plan. Excellent. Guaranteed to fight the flab. By our third pint we decided we’d write it up in the
Veterinary Record
. A stunning study, well researched. By our fourth, a doctorate in obesity was ours for the taking. Atkins Diet? Eat your heart out.

I made the mistake of mentioning the plan Eric and I had concocted to Mandy the next morning.

‘I can’t see it working, myself,’ she said, her pinched lips and cold manner far more effective in sobering me up than the Alka-Seltzers I’d taken first thing.

‘Really?’

‘Really,’ she echoed with a dismissive sniff.

Lucy, who had been folding vetbeds at the back of the ward room, intervened. ‘Surely it would be worth a try. If it didn’t work … well … nothing’s lost.’

I saw Mandy check herself. ‘It’s not for me to say, of course,’ she finally said, her eyes flicking from me to Lucy. If looks could kill, Lucy would have instantly become dead meat. Not for the first time I felt the tension between them.

She promptly contradicted what she’d just said by adding, ‘But there’s better things we could do with our time.’ Her plum-coloured eyes continued to bore into Lucy as if trying to goad her into a rebuke. She glanced across at the stack of feed bowls waiting to be washed. The inference was obvious. I saw Lucy redden and her freckled nose twitch.

‘I actually agree with Lucy,’ I decided to say and watched – with delight, I must confess – at how rapidly Mandy’s face went pale, save for two hectic blotches on each cheek. Now, now, Paul. Naughty boy … you should stay out of all this. But I felt the plan Eric and I had formulated the evening before had some merit – it had not been just the drink talking – and so was grateful of Lucy’s support.

In fact, thanks to her, the plan actually swung into action.

She volunteered to find out the calorie content of anything that Peggy was likely to be offered as titbits in the pub and, within 24 hours, had come up with a list of the calories in a crisp, peanut, a chip, a variety of chocolate bars and portions of sandwiches and pasties.

‘It’s a bit hit and miss,’ she confessed.

‘That’s not a problem,’ I said. ‘It’s just to give people a guide.’

When I gave Bernie the list his raised eyebrows said it all. He handed it to Brenda. ‘What do you think?’

‘Well, I suppose it’s worth a try. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’ Except more pounds on Peggy, I thought.

So we went ahead. Anyone caught giving Peggy a titbit had to put a calorie fine in a charity box displayed prominently in the bar. The amount of the fine was proportional to the estimated number of calories in the titbit.

Bernie told me later that one teenager, his tongue loosened by too many alcopops, asked whether the slim-in was for Peggy or Brenda and nearly got a pasty in his face as a result. ‘And he wasn’t the first to crack that joke,’ Bernie said. ‘Brenda’s getting quite touchy about it all.’

As co-instigator of the plan I decided it would be wise to steer clear of the Woolpack for a while, just to be on the safe side. If Brenda was getting sensitive about her own weight then I didn’t want to rub it in by asking about Peggy’s and get a pasty in my face for my efforts.

But the finish of another hectic Friday surgery a few weeks later had me over there, cajoled by Eric – just for a quick jar. Or two.

‘You do realise this is becoming a bit of a habit,’ I said.

‘What the heck. You need to wind down a bit. Relax,’ he replied. No mention was made of whether Crystal approved or not. I decided it was best not to ask.

The list and charity box had disappeared. Hmmm … not a good sign, I thought uneasily. Bernie seemed cheerful enough, though did I detect a slight hollowness in his bonhomie? But I had to ask the question. ‘So how did it go?’

‘Well … it sort of worked,’ he said, pulling a face as he pulled our pints.

‘Come on, Bernie. What do you mean “sort of”?’ said Eric.

Bernie shrugged. ‘As soon as the regulars realised how much it was costing them in calorie finds, the titbits stopped.’

‘Well, there you are, our plan worked then. It must have helped Peggy’s diet.’

Bernie flapped his jug ears and looked doubtful. ‘Well, I tell you. Peggy’s not half the dog she used to be.’

I choked on my lager. What was he on about? Not half the dog? Had something gone wrong? Had the dieting upset her?

‘See for yourself,’ said Bernie, raising the bar flap. Unable to control himself any longer, he burst out laughing as Peggy trotted through, the half-dog he’d mentioned … streamlined, fit, half the weight she used to be.

‘She looks fantastic,’ I said. ‘Well done. I bet Brenda’s pleased.’

‘In more ways than one,’ said Bernie still chuckling. He pointed a finger over my shoulder.

‘Good lord,’ spluttered Eric. ‘Who’d have thought …’

I spun round to find Brenda, hands on hips, in a figure-hugging black dress, the figure it hugged being a shadow of its former self. She twisted her hips and gave a little twirl.

‘Good, eh?’ she said. She went on to explain, ‘Lucy was a great help. She lent me all the books on calorie control and seemed to know quite a bit about dieting. I thought it was worth a go. So, what do you think? Do you approve?’