CLEANING BILL

CLEANING BILL
A story adapted from my new novel, Pets on Parade.
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‘You can’t be too careful,’ warned Mrs Tidy, pointing the spray gun at me. My knee-jerk reaction was to raise my hands and surrender before being blasted with disinfectant. Instead, Mrs Tidy pulled the trigger and directed a mist of spray across my consulting table.
‘I do wipe down between clients,’ I ventured to say as Mrs Tidy finished spraying and wiped the surface with a tissue which she then carefully folded and tossed into my waste paper bin.
‘Might not be the right concentration to kill off all those nasty bugs which must get brought in,’ she said. ‘ And I don’t want my Bill catching anything.’
I kept quiet. Didn’t seem much point in bugging her further.
With her bulging biceps, this Mrs Muscle- woman would have been hard to contend with. All six feet of her levered into a severe navy suit and with a face so scrubbed she could have out-bleached a draining-board. With ease, she swung the parrot cage containing the cockatiel onto the table. Bill’s cage was spotless. Its metal bars gleamed. Its mirrors shone. Both feed and water pots brilliant in their whiteness. The floor too was spotless. Not a mark on the overlying sand sheet. It was a wonder Bill ever dared to relieve himself.
Even Bill managed to reflect this immaculate clean image . He was a Lutino. No dusty grey feathering for him. But a pristine, pure white plumage. Unmarked save for the yellow head and crest and the characteristic orange cheek feathers. No doubt if Mrs Tidy could have had her way those cheek marks would have been bleach- cleaned.
It made me acutely aware of the muddy brown stain on my white coat’s breast pocket. I felt sure Mrs Tidy would have had that coat soaking in biological detergent before I could have shouted ‘paw mark’.
Just at that moment Bill wagged his tail and relieved himself.
‘Sorry about that,’ murmured Mrs Tidy.
‘Perfectly natural,’ I replied with a shrug. ‘It’s the Call of Nature.’
Even so I could see it didn’t go down too well with Mrs Tidy and made me think she’d be better off with a stuffed specimen.
‘It’s all the germs I worry about,’ said Mrs Tidy with a switch of her broad builder’s shoulders.
‘Germs?’
‘ You’re a vet. You should know what I mean.’ Mrs Tidy looked round as if in fear of being overheard. ‘Salmonella, E. coli. Chlamydia,’ she hissed. ‘Even…’ She paused and leaned forward. ‘Even MRSA.’
She straightened up to her full height and gazed down at me. ‘So I want you to give Bill the works.’
‘Works?’ I echoed, sounding like a ruddy parrot myself.
Mrs Tidy nodded. ‘A thorough screening.’
‘Screening?’ Oh dear I had to stop this.
There was an exasperated ‘tut’ from Mrs Tidy and a squawk from Bill. Both clearly ruffled by my apparent incomprehension.
Mrs Tidy went on to explain. A complete blood count, Chlamydia screen, and a culture of the throat and vent were required.
I gulped. Bill scuttled to the other end of his perch and raised his crest in alarm. The suggestion of a swab up his cloaca was clearly not to his liking.
But Mrs Tidy was adamant. ‘Bugs,’ she boomed her steel grey eyebrows rising like Tower Bridge. No way could she be crossed.
So I acquiesced. Bill was booked in for his overhaul the following day. And once the tests had been carried out he was returned to Mrs Tidy with instructions to come back in a week’s time to discuss the results.
A week to the day, I was subjected to another blast from Mrs Tidy’s spray gun before Bill’s cage was hoisted onto the table.
‘All clear,’ I was able to pronounce. ‘Bill’s got a clean bill of health.’
‘Well you’ve missed something then,’ said Mrs Tidy.
‘Missed?’ I was at it again.
‘He’s got the squits. ‘Probably picked it up when he was here last week.’ Mrs Tidy shuddered. The word ‘Germs’ floated unsaid in the air between us.
I peered in at Bill’s sand-sheet. Pristine. Unsoiled . Spotless.
‘Just changed it,’ said Mrs Tidy. ‘But he has been loose these last three days.’
I tried to reassure her that all was well with Bill. Nothing significant had been found in his stool samples. Negative for pathogenic bacteria. Negative for worms.
‘Well something’s got into him,’ she declared.
‘Still eating is he?’ I asked. The scoured empty containers in his cage gave me no indication of his food intake.
‘’Yes,’ replied Mrs Tidy.
‘What.’
‘Yes he is.’
‘No I mean “What’s he eating?”’
A long list ensued. Peanuts, thoroughly washed. Sunflower and sesame seeds equally scoured. Sprouts, steamed. Sweet corn boiled. Apples…’
‘Stewed?’ I said butting in with more than a little sarcasm in my voice.
Mrs Tidy failed to notice. ‘Naturally,’ she replied.
‘Well there’s your answer.’
‘Answer?’ Now it was Mrs Tidy’s turn to parrot-mimic me.
I explained. ‘Bill’s environment and feeding regime are just too sterile for his own good. He needs a few bugs around to build up some natural immunity.’
The mention of ‘bugs’ sent a shiver coursing through Mrs Tidy’s torso. She visibly flinched at the word. But I persevered. Tried to convince her a more down-to-earth diet would suit Bill better. More flinching. Seemed the word ‘earth’ and its association with dirt were grounds for abhorrence. Great mounds of it. But I dug my heels in. Ground on. And eventually she acquiesced and left assuring me she’d take my advice and feed Bill a more natural diet.
A fortnight later, I received a package in the post. It was carefully sealed with a biohazard label plastered across it. Inside, double wrapped in clear plastic, a small cardboard box smothered in tape. Having hacked through that I was presented with a plastic container labelled ‘Bill Tidy’ and dated. For a panic-stricken second I thought I was being presented with Bill’s body. But no. When I unscrewed the lid, there on a piece of cut sand-sheet was a dropping. Green and white. Well formed. A perfect poo.
I was delighted.
No longer would Mrs Tidy poo-poo my advice.

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