PRAISE FOR PETS IN A PICKLE
‘The author paints a vivid picture of many fascinating characters – human and animal – resulting in a most enjoyable and amusing read…The text gives the reader a most enjoyable insight into the unpredictable but fascinating life of the veterinary surgeon.’
Jim Wight, son of James Herriot
‘It’s fun and should bring a smile to your face.’
Sir Terry Wogan
‘Your story is a corker.’
Richard Madeley
‘I loved this book although I’ll never be able to look at my vet in the same way again.’
Denise Robertson, Agony Aunt, ITV’s This Morning
‘It’s a lighthearted “if you like animals, you’ll like this, especially the two-footed variety” pageturner.’
Anna Raeburn, LBC Radio’s ‘Book of the Week’.
‘There are a host of colourful characters behaving badly in this warm, funny novel.’
Woman’s Weekly
‘This book is laugh a minute material…I have not laughed so much reading a book for a very long time.’
Green (Living) Review
‘Not surprisingly, this book has topped the Amazon bestsellers list and looks set to become an animal lovers’ classic.’
Dogs in the News
‘This book is sure to be enjoyed by all animal lovers and those who enjoy human comedy.’
Pet Owners Association
CONTENTS
Title Page
1 FINDING A HAPPY MEDIUM
2 BERYL’S BEAU JANGLES
3 BYRE GONE DAYS
4 COTTAGE SPY
5 LET US PREY
6 SUPER-MANNED BUT NEARLY BANNED
7 CLEAN? NOT BY A LONG SQUAWK
8 REIGNING CATS AND DOG
9 SHOW ME THE BUNNY!
10 RUNNING OUT OF TIME
11 NOTHING TO SNARL ABOUT
12 A-ROVING HOME WITH REYNARD
13 GORED TO TEARS
14 HAVING THE QUILL TO LIVE
Copyright
When Madam Mountjoy walked into my consulting room that January morning with a black cat sitting benignly on her shoulder, and stated he was the reincarnation of an Inca emperor, I knew it was going to be one of those days.
Mind you, the morning had already got off to an uncertain start – and that was entirely my fault. It stemmed from the fact that I’d sent a Christmas email to our receptionist, not dreaming she was then going to brood about it all over the festive period, and still allow it to rankle now that we were into the New Year. Dear, oh dear. Where was your sense of humour, Beryl?
It had been an Internet card of a jolly Father Christmas standing on a red-tiled roof next to a chimney, going ‘Ho, ho, ho’. Very seasonal, I thought. Very Christmassy. You clicked on the sack he was carrying over his shoulder and he suddenly became animated – he actually sprang over to the chimney pot. I expected him to pop down it. Wrong. He started to urinate down it instead. It tickled my juvenile sense of humour but it didn’t tickle our receptionist’s at Prospect House when I emailed it to her. I must admit I’d had an anxious moment when I clicked the ‘Send’ button, thinking perhaps Beryl might not see the funny side of it. Too right. She didn’t.
It was apparent the moment I bounded into reception, full of good cheer, a smile on my face, ready to greet her with a chirpy ‘Good morning’. That didn’t cut any ice with her. Oh, no. Her frosty expression and the Arctic glare from her good eye – the other, as usual, just gave out its customary artificial glint of glass – were enough to freeze my bonhomie as if I’d just plunged through a walrus’s blowhole.
My ‘Good morning, Beryl … how are things?’ instantly froze on my lips as I swiftly saw that ‘things’ were definitely not good.
Beryl pulled at the sleeve of the black cardigan draped, shawl-like, over her shoulders. It was an exaggerated gesture which spoke of a thousand grievances. But one was sufficient. ‘Why don’t you grow up, Paul? That email of yours wasn’t funny.’
Uh oh. Seems my peeing Santa had a lot to answer for.
Beryl had turned back to the computer and was tapping away at the keyboard, her long, red nails flying across the keys. ‘Which reminds me,’ she went on, her face remaining impassive as she spoke, ‘Mr Digby wants some more tablets. His Labrador’s bladder is playing up again.’
I was tempted to say, ‘Good job it wasn’t his reindeer’s …’ but thought better of it. After all, I wasn’t that much of a wit and, to judge from Beryl’s icy look, she already considered me half of one.
Having re-established a fragile line of communication with Beryl by way of Mr Digby’s bladder problems – an appointment to be made before further medication was prescribed – I breezed on down the corridor to do my usual ward round before starting morning consultations.
I met Mandy, our senior nurse, clip-clopping in her highly polished, black brogues up the corridor. As ever, I felt like jumping to one side and giving her a salute. She’d evoked that reaction in me ever since my initial run-in with her over the anaesthetic machine last June – when I was being interviewed for the post of assistant vet. A memory which actually still causes me to giggle (‘Oh, do grow up, Paul,’ my girlfriend would say), although, at the time, my squeaky giggling had been induced by the escape of nitrous oxide. As Mandy drew level, I tentatively raised my hand in a gesture of greeting while she sailed by accompanied by the crackle of her crisply starched uniform. A galleon at full stretch. Her prow plunging forward … well, at least her ample bosom was. Her head barely turned as my ‘Good morning’ was acknowledged with a brisk nod and a curt ‘Morning, Paul,’ before her keel turned to starboard and she disappeared into the dispensary. Blimey. What had got into her bulwarks? So much for New Year festive feelings. Here, in Prospect House, they seemed to be festering fast.
Mind you, things hadn’t been exactly a bed of roses back at Willow Wren first thing. My girlfriend, Lucy, the junior nurse at the practice, had had to get up ahead of me for the early shift and had been distinctly thorny.
‘Don’t know why you’re so cheerful,’ she muttered in response to my ‘Morning, sweetheart,’ as she pulled on her uniform, lights