Psychiatry for Dogs

Norbert

Chapter 49

Psychiatry for Dogs

When I arrive at work next morning, GT is purple in the face and close to apoplexy.

Baldy appears in his office doorway and sniffs. ‘The interviews for the senior post have been cancelled. As there are only two candidates, and in light of what has happened, Mr Foote-Wharmer and I have decided with the bias so strongly weighted against you, it would be grossly unfair to conduct a formal interview with third parties who would undoubtedly be influenced by the situation.’

‘It isn’t fair,’ hisses GT.

‘So what happens now?’ says Velcro. ‘How do you decide who gets the job?’

Ruben rubs his hands and beams. ‘I’m organizing a quiz. Winner takes all.’

Isabel glares at GT, turns to me and melts my heart with a smile. ‘Can I be on your team?’

*

GT picks Dora Mae Doll, Healer Dai and his limpet, Clothilda Church-Pugh. I have Isabel, Dora Mae Blimp and Foultongue on my team. GT is more than happy to have a doctor on his team and a cleaner on mine. I am more than happy to have a trained social worker on my team and an inbred Welsh idiot on his.

The event is to be staged in the hospital social club the first Friday in December. It is ticket only and they are all taken inside a day. Peregrine Foote-Wharmer and Baldy Warnetires-Skidmore are appointed as adjudicators, and no one has any qualms about Rube. The craggy-faced sourpuss is as elementarily neutral as a neutron. He can’t be bought, bribed, coerced or corrupted. He hates the world and everyone in it equally.

I buy a couple of quiz books and am revising in my bedroom one Saturday morning when the doorbell rings. I go downstairs after the second ring.

I notice Nunky is watching television. ‘What are you watching that is so riveting you can’t drag yourself away to answer the door?’

The bell rings yet again, more insistently.

‘It’s a nature programme about beavers, mi babby. It’s the best dam show I’ve ever seen.’

I answer the door to a middle-aged man in black horn-rimmed glasses, carrying a briefcase. A blizzard swept through a couple of days ago, so he is wrapped up against the bitter cold in a greatcoat, scarf and fur hat. He raises it politely, says ‘Good Morning’ and squeezes past me. He stands in the hall and stamps the snow off his shoes.

‘Hold on,’ I say. ‘You can’t just walk into my house…’

‘It’s all right, mi babby, this is Doctor Head-Wright, Weggie’s psychiatrist.’

‘His what?’

The man hands me his business card.

‘Weggie has been through a traumatic experience, mi babby. It said on the radio that those emotionally affected by the floods should seek counselling. Well, I rung the council and they were ruddy useless as usual, passing me from phone to phone. Luckily the woman in social services knew me and said it was all a con by ruthless conmen posing as counsellors capitalizing on the vulnerability of special people like me through greed for profit and that I should avoid these shysters like the plague and so I went through the Yellow Pages and there’s hundreds in the Shysters section and that’s how I came across Dr Head-Wright who assured me he is a fully qualified dog psychiatrist with a degree from the University of Timbuktu which he’s shown me but its all in genuine foreign...’

Weggie cushions Nunky’s fall and licks his face.

Dr Head-Wright and I help Nunky into the lounge and sit him in his chair. I fetch him a glass of water.

I have noticed that Weggie does seem a little off colour and preoccupied since the flood. Only last week, Nunky gave him the wrong plate and he ate a vegetable lasagne without complaint. Also, the doctor has been in the house for all of five minutes and still has his hat on.

‘You have a very nice house, Mr Rockhampton-Smythe,’ the doctor says, ingratiatingly. ‘Very modern.’

‘Thank you. We’ve even got an eco kettle.’

‘The landlord used to collect the rent with a cricket bat,’ says Nunky. ‘But he doesn’t anymore. Weggie now keeps it in his bedroom.’

‘He doesn’t wear a fedora any longer, either’

‘And since Weggie moved in he’s kindly reduced our rent from extortionate to tortionate,’ says Nunky.

Dr Head-Wright slyly removes his hat.

‘What exactly are you doing for Weggie?’

‘We talk, or rather I talk and your uncle translates telepathically, so that it is a two-way conversation between me and the patient.’

‘That must be a great help, getting Weggie’s side of the story?’

‘An enormous help. He really is a troubled soul.’

‘Gave you his life story, did he?’

‘Poured his heart out. Very emotional it was. We got through a box of tissues in three sessions.’

‘I used to do the same. Now I cry into my socks.’

‘It’s doing Weggie a power of good to get all this anger, pain and resentment out of his system. And he says he couldn’t have done it without you and Nunky. You saved his life.’

‘I have to admit he is a different dog now. But do you think the incident with the drownded man has affected him?’

‘He followed his rekindled instinct to help someone and failed. There was no pat on the head at the end of it, no doggy treat.’

‘He did get a tasty sou’wester, though,’ says Nunky.

The doctor sits on his hat. ‘Above all else, a dog needs affection and a stable home.’

‘Stable, kennel, call it what you like. It’s still my grannytickling bedroom.’

Nunky interrupts. ‘Stop moaning, mi babby. Time is money. This is Weggie’s session.’

‘That’s a point. How much are you charging?’

‘Just thirty pounds an hour, plus travelling expenses. I live in Milan.’

‘Which just happens to have the same dialling code as Macarbrough?’ I say, glancing at his card.

‘You can but try.’

‘Do you do special offers, like two for the price of one?’

‘Why? Do you have a schizophrenic goldfish as well?’

‘I was thinking more in terms of me. Do you treat humans?’

‘Do you qualify?’

‘I’d like to think so.’

‘If you’ve got the bills, sonny, I’ve got the skills.’

‘Don’t call me sonny, I’m nearly twenty six.’

‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘What isn’t wrong with him?’ says Nunky. ‘He’s a valetudinarian.’

‘My, my, that is a big word,’ says Head-Wright.

‘It needs to be to cover the number of maladies which afflict my nephew.’

I turn to Nunky in panic. ‘I suffer from valetude and you never told me? Is it fatal? Am I going to die?’

‘You don’t really suffer from anything at all, mi babby, do you?’

‘How can you say that, Nunky? My medicine cabinet is bigger than my wardrobe. I need every last potion and pill to stay alive.’

 Nunky takes me in his arms. ‘I know, mi babby, and it is sad that illness has become your crutch.’

‘That’s the only bit of me that does work properly.’

Nunky turns to the doctor. ‘He’s also fixated with loo-loos.’

‘Didn’t she win the Eurovision Song-Mangling Contest many years ago?’

‘I’m an admirer of the female form, I admit, but who isn’t?’

‘Macarbrough Cricket Club, for eleven.’

‘I’ve been an orphan for most of my life and I find it difficult to talk about my problems. For instance, I ate some glue as a child, but I couldn’t tell Mummy. My lips were sealed. And another time…’

‘I’m sorry,’ he interrupts, ‘but I don’t think I’m qualified to help you. I’m not sure anyone on the planet is qualified to help you, Mr Rockhampton-Smythe.’

His affirmation of my medical uniqueness is gratifying to hear, and I attempt a smile. ‘Oh well, it was worth a shot. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to study for my job quiz. I’ll leave you to your consultation.’

‘Before you go, can I ask if this unfortunate business has taught you anything new about Weggie?’ 

‘Indeed it has. Appetizing as it looks, I will never eat yellow snow again.’