Trust Me, I'm a Vet Read Online Free PDF Page B

dog.’ He digs his heels into the mare’s sides and gallops away, sending up showers of clinker and dust, and flashes of steel.
    I scold Miff gently as I clip her collar – a psychedelic canvas affair which I grabbed off the rack in Reception on my way out – securely back round her neck.
    ‘There was no need for you to get me into trouble. I’m more than capable of doing that all by myself.’
    Miff waves her tail just once, her brown eyes downcast.
    ‘Oh, cheer up. I’m not cross with you.’ I’m annoyed with myself for letting that arrogant, testosterone-fuelled – I swear under my breath – get to me. Who is he? The local squire? I try to dismiss him, but he isn’t the kind of man who’s easily dismissed. I was already on edge, wondering what exactly I’ve let myself in for, but now . . . I feel as if I could be back in London, having been subjected to a road rage attack on my way to work.
    Country life. Country people. Emma made it all sound so romantic, I think, as Miff and I scurry back along the riverbank and across the footbridge which arches over the rust-coloured waters of the River Taly.
    Crossing the green on the way to the town, we pass two men removing the ribbons from the maypole which stands in the middle.
    ‘Mornin’, my lover,’ one calls out.
    I wave back, smiling at his odd, uniquely West Country turn of phrase, then turn right into town, past the end wall of the Duck and Dragon where someone’s sprayed ‘Grockles, Per-lease Go Home’ politely in red paint. (The pub is one of three left in Talyton – apparently, the town used to support eleven.) When I arrive back outside Otter House, I hesitate for a moment.
    Taking a deep breath, I finally burst into Reception, only to have my enthusiasm halted by the commanding sight of Frances’s raised palm as she uses the other hand to lift the phone.
    ‘Talyton Manor Vets – I mean the other ones. How can I help you?’ She listens for a few moments then, ‘Oh, Gloria . . . yes, indeed. Old Mr Fox-Gifford would prescribe exactly that – a few days on a light diet, boiled chicken and rice, and he’ll be as right as ninepins.’
    I wait, itching for her to finish. How does it look to a client if your receptionist keeps dropping the name of the competition into the conversation?
    Frances puts the phone down and greets me with a brief smile.
    ‘Frances, I know you mean well,’ I begin tactfully, ‘but I’d prefer you not to give out advice.’
    ‘The Fox-Giffords expected me to use my discretion,’ Frances says, appearing unconcerned.
    ‘This isn’t Talyton Manor though,’ I say, but I’m not sure I’m winning. Frances has the same rather glazed expression as Robbie the ex-police dog did just after he’d been hit by that tractor. ‘I’d appreciate it if you called this Gloria person straight back, please, and tell her to make an appointment to see me if her dog —’
    ‘It’s a cat,’ Frances interrupts, ‘one of her ferals. It’s pretty wild.’
    ‘OK, but that’s no reason for me not to see it.’ I let Miff off the lead.
    ‘It bit right through Emma’s thumb last time – she was on antibiotics for weeks.’
    ‘Frances, just ring her.’ I’m not going to be intimidated by anything, be it feline or human. ‘I’m going to get changed. I’ll be back in five.’
    ‘Take your time.’ Frances’s reading glasses rest via a chain on the shelf of her bosom. She slips them onto her nose, and taps at the keyboard in front of her with the end of a pen as if she’s afraid of making direct contact with it. ‘There’s hardly anyone booked in for you.’
    I go and change my shoes, and return to Reception, fastening the poppers on my paw-print top.
    ‘Did you get hold of Gloria?’ I ask Frances, who’s reading a newspaper now, the Talyton Chronicle .
    ‘She says she won’t see a strange vet. She’s going to wait until Emma’s back.’
    ‘Didn’t you explain the situation?’ I’m smarting a little. I know