Free Pets in a Pickle by Malcolm D Welshman

leading, it didn’t bode well.
    Crystal continued, ‘Well, they own this horse. And they’re absolutely potty about her. Quite over the top, to be honest with you.’ Again she paused. ‘Problem is, they put her to stud.’
    I inwardly groaned, praying not to hear what I suspected was coming next. But to no avail.
    ‘She’s due to foal this coming weekend.’
    Damn. I just knew it. Crystal saw me wince.
    ‘Sorry. It’s just one of those things. Of course, the Richardsons are in an absolute tizzy imagining all sorts of horrendous things that could go wrong. And they’re very put out that I’m going to be away at such a crucial time. They even suggested I cancel my holiday and they’d reimburse me for it. Can you imagine?’ She looked apologetically at me. ‘I’ve tried to reassure them that they’ll be in your capable hands should they experience any problems. Hopefully, that situation won’t arise.’
    Crystal didn’t sound at all convincing. Nor was I convinced.
    ‘Has the pregnancy been going OK?’
    ‘No problems so far, though George Richardson’s imagination’s running wild. He keeps on about breech presentations, eversion of the womb, heart blocks … you know the sort of thing.’
    That was just it. I didn’t know and the mere thought of them made my innards feel like they were inverting, let alone those of an expectant mare. ‘I don’t suppose they could be wrong about the timing,’ I said.
    Silly of me to suggest it, but then I was clutching at straws. Whole bales of straw … stacks of them to be honest. The look in Crystal’s eyes said it all.
    The Saturday of the bank holiday kept me busy what with the influx of visitors to Westcott swelling the usual run of injured or sick cats and dogs. There were a couple of road accident cases, and a dog with a fractured femur which, as Crystal was away, I pinned myself despite oblique suggestions from Mandy that I referred the case; and I was pleased with my efforts.
    There was no word from the Richardsons. I began to convince myself that they’d got their dates wrong. Even so, I warned Mandy, the duty nurse for that night, about the possibility of a foaling. So the clamour of Mrs Paget’s phone in the early hours of Sunday morning came as no great surprise. And yes, it was Mandy.
    ‘Sorry, Paul. But I’ve just had Mr Richardson on. They’re worried about their horse, Clementine. They insist on speaking to you.’ She gave me their number.
    Mr Richardson must have been sitting on the phone as he answered it at the first ring. With panic in his voice he said, ‘Clementine’s started. We need help immediately before she dies.’
    I could sense his agitation down the phone. It was infectious enough to make my hand start shaking. Get a grip, Paul, I muttered to myself, as I promised to get over as soon as I could. I phoned Mandy back to tell her of my plans.
    ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘Lucy told me to say she’d be happy to help out if you needed her.’ There was a pause. ‘I’ll wake her up, shall I?’ It was said as if Mandy relished the thought of doing so … and she probably did, as there was still no love lost between the two of them. ‘I’ll get her to be outside the hospital in ten minutes’ time then,’ she added when I agreed to her coming.
    ‘Everything all right?’ A voice echoed down from the landing as I put down the phone. Mrs Paget stood at the top of the stairs, her head festooned with pink curlers, a hand clasped to the collar of her nightie, the other pinning a growling Chico to her waist.
    ‘I’ve got to go out on an emergency. Not sure when I’ll be back.’
    ‘Well, don’t worry. Whatever time it is, you can use the kitchen. We won’t mind, will we, Chico?’ Mrs Paget gave the dog a kiss on his head and stared intently down at me. ‘Anything to help the nice young vet here.’ She continued to study me, her puffy eyes glinting.
    I was suddenly aware I was only in boxer shorts and, thanking her, dashed