All Ears

All Ears
by Malcolm Welshman
Author of Pets in a Pickle
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qgqDkDMWFHQ

Ben was a magnificent cat – part Balinese with a silky ivory coat, small white goatee, ears, gloves and socks a deep brown; and a tail that blossomed into a magnificent dark plume. He would sit on my consulting table and nonchalantly give himself a full paw and whisker wash. If I dared to interrupt, his muscular frame would ripple with indignation and he’d shoot me a look that said ‘Come the revolution, my head would be first in the basket.’
Only one thing marred his good looks. In the depths of his family tree, an ancestor must have branched out in search of a mate. As the result, Ben had inherited a fault. Or rather two. A couple of outsized ears. They were big. Huge. At the slightest sound, they swivelled and whirled into action, turning on their axes like two giant radio wave receivers.
However, I didn’t dare comment on the enormity of their size as Ben’s owner, Mr Wigley, also sported ears that out-spanned those of Noddy’s companion. A real live Big Ears. Like Ben’s, they seemed to flap and stretch with every nod of his head. Fascinating to watch. I could barely take my eyes off them; and it made me frame questions just to see those acrobatic auricular appendages spring into action.
‘Ben’s well, is he?’ I’d ask innocently.
Nod. Nod. Flap. Flap.
‘Still chasing the ladies?’
Wiggle. Wiggle.
But this particular hot August afternoon, it was Ben’s ears that were the more active - in full swing, twitching and quivering, way out-of-control. The right one was swollen and puffy.
‘Been shaking his head a lot, has he?’ I asked.
Flick. Flick. This time it was Mr Wigley’s ears. ‘Thought perhaps it was the heat. I didn’t want to get in too much of a flap about it.’
Yes..well ... I thought. You’re not doing too badly. Flip. Flip.
Mr Wigley went on: ‘But when his right ear started to swell I thought it best to bring him in.’
‘’ear ...’ear,’ I muttered under my breath.
I discovered Ben’s ear canals were like the Tube in the rush hour. Each packed with a seething, mass of mites. They waved up at me as I peered down the auriscope with which I gently probed the cat’s ears, illuminating the Otodectes mites in their sea of smelly brown wax.
‘How on earth could he have got them?’ queried Mr Wigley.
‘Probably from one of his lady friends, don’t you think?’
Flap. Flap. Such mobility.
‘And did one of them biff him to cause the swollen ear?’
‘No. No. I would guess it’s the irritation caused by the mites.’ I paused. Then wickedly added another ‘Don’t you think?’
The ears wiggled again.
Ben too gave an almighty nod. Bits of wax dislodged by my auriscope showered across the table.
‘The swelling’s a haematoma,’ I went on. ‘A minute blood vessel in his ear has ruptured and allowed blood to seep out between the skin and cartilage.’ My. My. I sure sounded in full lecture-mode. Mr Wigley was all ears – both twitching with agitation if not irritation.
‘Sounds serious,’ he said.
I reassured him. ‘We could leave it. The blood clot would gradually be reabsorbed. But the scar tissue left could twist Ben’s ear out of shape.’
Mr Wigley’s ears appeared to buckle in slightly. I half- expected them to turn into cauliflowers. Now. Now. I was getting carried away. But I couldn’t help myself from saying: ‘Best if we operate’ and then adding yet another ‘Don’t you think?’ I waited gleefully for the response. I wasn’t disappointed.
Flap. Flap. Wiggle. Wiggle.
The next morning, Ben was admitted for minor surgery. He was clearly disgruntled at missing out on breakfast and being denied his customary night on the tiles. Once anaesthetised, it was a simple task to incise and drain the swelling. Stitches right through the ear’s pinna ensured the area was sufficiently compressed to prevent any reoccurrence. While he was unconscious, I took the opportunity to clean out each ear canal and instil some drops to kill off any remaining mites.
Mr Wigley continued with the medication for the next fortnight. When Ben returned to have the stitches removed I asked ‘Did you manage to keep him in each night?’ I was rewarded with just the merest of ear twitches. Shame.
‘All bar last Saturday,’ replied Mr Wigley.
I discovered the outcome of that night a few months later.
Mrs Bradshaw, who lived in the next road along, brought in four beautiful tabby kittens for vaccination.
‘Aren’t they sweet,’ she cooed. ‘I’d love to know who their father is.’
‘I could hazard a guess,’ I said as eight out-sized ears swivelled in my direction and began to flap, flap, wiggle, wiggle.