Page 6 of Animal Instincts
With the sun shining down, and the spring breeze holding a hint of the summer to come, it was easy to see why the village with its cobbled streets, pastel painted former fishermen’s cottages decked with overflowing hanging baskets of cheery flowers, and quaint timbered pubs with wonky roofs, captured the hearts of locals and visitors alike. Yet, Joss was more than happy to leave Love’s Harbour’s West Country charm to others.
Several people passed him, and Joss nodded, smiled and waved. Many stopped to chat, asking after him and Gran before going on their way. All were no doubt wondering why he was waiting for the city-bound bus. Some asked and his vagueto see a friend on my day offseemed to satisfy their curiosity, or mostly, as a few drilled for details. Everybody knew, or wanted to know each other’s business. It was the way of small communities, his gran liked to remind him, but for Joss the communal arms that hugged tight could sometimes feel stifling and imprisoning.
And that’s exactly why I’m waiting for the bus…If his plans came to fruition, the next time he took the bus he wouldn’t have a return ticket in his pocket, but a one-way.
At last, the bus trundled up and Joss climbed aboard, giving the driver a bright and breezy greeting because today was the day he was taking the first steps towards buying that one-way ticket.
FIVE
“I can assure you, Miss Miller, Daisy-Belle is in no immediate danger. Her problem is less medical and more nutritional. Your dog, Madam, is too tubby.”
Oliver looked from Miss Miller to Daisy-Belle, both as jowly and round as each other.
Yes, his words were blunt, but perhaps not as blunt as he could and should be, because the little corgi was suffering for her owner’s well intentioned but misguided actions. If being blunt — which was one of the kinder words that had been used about his animal bedside manner — was in the interests of the pet, then that was how he would be. The little corgi needed to run around on its stubby legs and be put on a supervised food plan, and not be fed from a selection of dog treats which seemed to take up half the space in Miss Miller’s old fashioned wicker shopping basket.
“Nutritional? Tubby?”
Miss Miller peered up at Oliver from the chair by the wall in his consulting room, outrage and disbelief in both her voice and small button eyes.
“How can that possibly be? The poor thing barely eats her food — that premium brand that’s advertised on the telly, which is really too expensive for a poor pensioner like me. But, only the best for my Daisy-Belle. I feed her treats to ensure she gets something to keep her strength up.”
Miss Miller bent down and pulled a tin of doggy chocs from her basket and gave it a good shake. Daisy-Belle pushed herself up onto her short legs, her tail wagging furiously as her tongue swept over her saliva-soaked chops.
Oliver stifled his groan. Why were people so much harder to deal with than animals?
His London practice had been rammed with clients like this — a lot richer, more well-heeled, certainly, but they, like the elderly lady, were deaf to the truth about their over-pampered, overfed pets. He understood the bond between owner and animal, but he couldn’t pander to the delicate feelings of the man, woman or indeed child who was damaging their pet’s health out of a misguided sense of love. There was such a thing as killing with kindness.
“Miss Miller, Daisy-Belle is essentially in good health. But she won’t be for much longer if you keep feeding her treats. All she needs is to be kept to a balanced diet, and be encouraged to take more—”
“Young man.” Miss Miller heaved her less than five foot frame from the chair. “Are you saying I’m responsible for Daisy-Belle’s condition?”
Oliver took a breath before he answered. “The only condition she has is due to being overfed. So, yes, I am. I’m being very frank with you. However, all she needs is to shed a few pounds, and that’s easily achieved. Let me print you out a nutrition sheet.” Oliver stepped over to the cubby hole of an office where his laptop sat on a small desk but Miss Miller’s words stopped him in his tracks.
“Daisy-Belle needs medication, for her breathing and her poor appetite. If I didn’t feed her titbits she’d waste away. I’m most unhappy.” She bundled Daisy-Belle off the examination bench as best she could, holding the dog like a shield. “I shall be transferring to the practice in St. Peter’s,” she said, referring to the next village along the coast. “And I don’t expect to have to pay for this travesty of a consultation. Good day to you.” The door slammed with surprising force as Miss Miller left.
“Jesus.”
Oliver ripped off his gloves and shoved his fingers through his hair. The old lady loved her dog, believing she was doing her best by her, but… killing with kindness. He couldn’t let that happen.
He pulled out his phone, and placed a quick call through to the St. Peter’s vet, catching her between appointments and explaining she’d soon be getting a new client, and why.
They’d met a couple of times since he’d arrived in Love’s Harbour; she was a kind but no nonsense woman with a lot of experience, and she was locally born and bred which, he reckoned, would be a factor in her favour. As long as somebody acted in the best interests of the dog, he didn’t much care who it was. Satisfied he’d done his best, Oliver slumped into his office chair and closed his eyes.
There was a gap before his next appointment, and his mind began to drift. What would Donald have done about the pudgy pet? Oliver’s muscles tensed, and he ground his teeth. Donald, his former business partner in London, and very much former friend.
Oliver knew, he knew very well what Donald would have done. He would have prescribed a useless — and very expensive — course of treatment made of nothing more than vitamin tablets and an unspecified “tonic” and charged a fortune for them. Their wealthy London clients would have thought nothing of the cost. A placebo, sometimes, could be the right course of action, mostly to salve the owner’s worries, but for Donald it was the course of very lucrative least resistance. They had argued about what Oliver considered sharp practice, and it had been the start of what had wrenched them apart.
Oliver jumped, as the ping of a text message tugged him away from the unwelcome thoughts about his former life.
Free for lunch at the house? We’re down for a quick visit.
Oliver grinned, because it was exactly what he needed. He checked his diary — the next patient had changed their appointment; he’d forgotten about that, but it now gave him more time than he’d thought. He should be catching up on his ever growing pile of admin…
Be with you in fifteen mins.
Moments later, Oliver was striding through the sunshine, on his way to the smart Regency villa on the outskirts of the village.
SIX
