Read Online Pets in a Pickle by Malcolm D Welshman - Free Book Online
Authors: Malcolm D Welshman
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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
‘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
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