SERIES Tales From Prospect House by Malcolm Welshman
It’s not just the animals that get attention at the veterinary hospital!
MY life-drawing class confrontation with one of the practice’s clients, Mrs Mundy, completely starkers, was the subject of much banter over coffee for several days.
“I’ll certainly see her in a different light from now on.” Eric chortled. “Preferably still clothed, though.”
For Mandy and Lucy, life drawing in whatever shape or size was a lost art. A sketch for them meant one on a TV comedy show.
The tail end of a hurricane sweeping in ensured a change of subject. Westcott pier took a battering from Storm Ingrid.
Roads were flooded and trees blown down. In the aftermath, I was presented with my first canine casualty of the storm – Arabella. An elderly Saluki, elegant, greyhound-like, creamcoloured with soft silky ears, she’d been startled by a flying refuse bin, twisted sharply on her lead, and now couldn’t use her right hind leg.
I heard a kerfuffle out in reception and walked through to find Mandy and Lucy helping the Saluki up the steps, supporting her hind legs while Beryl held the door open.
It seemed Beryl had seen the owner struggling across the car park with Arabella and had run down to the ward to fetch the nurses. All three of them were very eager to be of assistance.
“Probably best if we carry her through for you,” Mandy said, not to me, as I’d thought, but the owner. Her eyelids fluttered like butterfly wings.
“That’s kind of you,” the owner said.
“It’s why we’re here,” Lucy added, her eyelids also in a frenzy of flutter.
“I’ll just take down some details if you don’t mind.” Beryl’s own eyelids went into similar lash-overdrive as she gazed across at the owner.
The cause of all that lepidopterous wing-like activity was a muscular young man in narrow jeans, dark hair in a gelled quiff, shaved at the sides.
Roberto Ferrari was his name. He was Italian.
“Call me Rob, if you wish,” he said in a low, husky voice.
“Any time,” Mandy murmured, nudging Lucy.
“Let’s get the dog through,” I said, my eyelashes unfluttered.
With the Saluki lifted on to the consulting table, Mandy and Lucy were dismissed, though they offered to stay.
I examined her. There were no grunts of pain as I prodded her spine. I felt her hips, swinging each leg forwards, backwards and out. No reaction.
I carefully flexed her left knee. Fine. Then her right knee. There was a yelp.
“Right, Roberto. Let’s see if Arabella will stand.”
Between us we lifted her down. She gamely stood, left leg bearing all her weight while her right leg remained flexed, toes just touching the floor.
A forward/backward manipulation of her right knee confirmed the diagnosis I suspected. A rupture of a ligament in the knee cap.
“We can replace it with an artificial one,” I explained.
“At her age?” Roberto faltered. “She’s coming up for fourteen.”
I nodded.
“Rest is the only other option,” I said, knowing that sounded obvious. “Coupled with some anti-inflammatory therapy, it might just do the trick.”
A week later, there was little improvement.
“She needs crutches,” Roberto said.
That gave me an idea. Arabella was admitted to the hospital and her right leg put in plaster.
I hoped it would act as a supportive crutch.
Every week for a month, Arabella stomped in for a check-up. Same day; same time.
At the final check, all was well. Arabella was using her right leg again, and the plaster could come off.
“Excellent,” Roberto said when he settled his account. “I can get back to the art class now.’
I saw Beryl was immediately all ears. As, no doubt, were Lucy and Mandy out in the corridor.
Roberto explained. He modelled for the lifedrawing class, but not while Arabella had been in plaster. He hadn’t wanted to leave her on her own in case there were any problems.
“But now I can attend tomorrow’s class,” he said, flexing his brawny arms.
In the office next day, I spotted three newly purchased sets of charcoal pencils and three large sketch pads, all ready to be used that evening.
Roberto Ferrari. He was bound to be a big draw.
More next week.