NEVER MISS A TRICK.

Mr. Grimaldi swirled into my consulting room and with a dramatic flourish typical of a magician, whisked the black and white rabbit from the basket he’d been carrying and placed her on the table.
‘My Tzarina. She’s sick,’ he said You must make her better. I’ve a show this weekend for a little girl who’s just come out of hospital.’ He gesticulated wildly as if attempting to magic a cure of his own. But as a vet, that was going to be my job.
The rabbit was certainly ill, crouching miserably on the table, the natural red of her eyes accentuated by swollen, inflamed lids, from the corners of which oozed a brown discharge. Her nose too was wet, the fur sticky: and her breathing came in bellow-like rasps.
‘It’s a cold, yes?’ asked Grimaldi, a tremor in his voice.
‘Pneumonia more like,’ I murmured, picking up my stethoscope to listen to her chest. Sounds akin to an unoiled wheelbarrow shunting across a cobbled yard echoed in my ears. Even with daily antibiotic therapy she’d never be well enough for the magic show at the weekend.
That evening, discussing the case with my wife, Maxeen, she came up with a solution. ‘Grimaldi definitely feels another rabbit wouldn’t do?’ she asked.
‘He’s adamant.’
‘Hmm. I think it’s just a question of convincing him.’
‘And just how do you propose I do that?’
She started to elaborate. Her idea had me backing away, palms up. ‘I couldn’t possibly do that … it’s daft.’
‘But if it meant the show could still go ahead. Think what it would mean for the little girl.’ Maxeen gave me a hard stare. ‘Worth trying, surely?’
I took a deep breath and reluctantly agreed.

The following day with Grimaldi due at any minute, I was nervously pacing the surgery, feeling a absolute idiot. The theatrical outfitters had been very obliging when I explained the need for the outfit I was now wearing
When Grimaldi saw me his mouth dropped open, his eyes bulged, his moustache quivered.
‘What on earth ...?’ he spluttered, stepping back smartly.
‘Wait. Let me explain,’ I said and extricated my arms from the black and red magician’s cloak draped over my shoulders. ‘I know you said nothing could replace Tzarina but …’
Grimaldi looked puzzled. ‘So?’
‘Well let me conjure one up for you.’ Already shaking with nerves, I began fumbling in the satin lining of the cloak, groping for the pocket in which my daughter’s rabbit was nestling. After losing my top hat and careering round in circles, I eventually located the pocket, grasped Bugsie by his ears and scruff, supporting his hindquarters with my free hand as I eased him onto the table.
‘Hey ... er ...presto,’ I gasped, standing to one side.
Grimaldi collapsed against the side of the table, convulsed with laughter. I tried to explain that I’d donned the outfit to convince him that our rabbit would be a suitable candidate for his show.
Grimaldi dabbed his eyes with a red silk square that seemed to materialize from thin air. ‘Okay. Okay. You’ve gone to all this trouble, so, yes, I’ll certainly give him a try.’
So how did the show go?’ I asked when Grimaldi returned with Bugsie.
‘‘He was fine,’ enthused Grimaldi. ‘A real star. Didn’t miss a trick.’
‘Where is he? I queried staring into the empty basket as the magician swirled round the consulting room still dressed in his top hat, white gloves and black, satin cloak.
‘Ha, ha.’ he said, tapping his hat with his cane and then whirling it in front of me to knock down the lid of the basket. ‘He’s in there.’
‘No, he’s not. I’ve just looked.’
Grimaldi whipped off his top hat, passed it three times over the basket and then flung open the lid. ‘Bugsie!’ he cried.
The rabbit popped his head up from what I swear had been an empty basket.
The magician grinned. ‘See what I mean? A star performer.’ Grimaldi’s arms momentarily disappeared beneath his cloak. His right hand reappeared holding a box of chocolates. ‘These are for your wife for giving you the idea.’
Then with a final whirl of his cloak, he vanished out of the door.

Article by Malcolm Welshman B.V.Sc.
Author of Pets on Parade published April 2012
Amazon review:
Sir Terry Wogan said of Welshman’s first novel, ‘It’s fun and should bring a smile to your face’. Well it certainly applies to the second instalment of Paul Mitchell’s antics at Prospect House. `Pets in Parade’ not only equals `Pets in a Pickle’ but quite surpasses it.

http://tinyurl.com/88tntd4

Comments