I woke up yesterday morning with a hacking cough.
Mistress took me straight to the vet. I don’t mind him. He’s friendly and always gives me a snack after diagnosis.
“Kennel cough, I’m afraid,” the vet said, holding me on his slippery high table. “Keep Tommy away from other dogs during his course of anti-biotics because he’ll be infectious.”
“That might be difficult,” Mistress replied.
I yawned. Mistress would have to come to terms with me being a sick dog. Not that I felt too bad. When we went out into Reception, there was a cat far worse off than me. She sat shivering inside her cage and her orange eyes settled on me like a pair of moons.
I gave a spluttery sneeze which covered the far wall and a big Dalmation print.
“That will be eighty-five pounds, Miss Taylor,” said the Receptionist.
Mistress dropped her head until all you could see was her long mane of hair.
“Haven’t got it this week, Rachel,” she whispered. “But I do have a 19th century painting of one of my ancestors going to auction any day. “The commission will buy us both a day at the Health Club. How about it? I can settle up after that.”
Mistress’s debts were mounting fast. I was going to have to talk to Archie about this. She had entered the world of bribery and corruption.
What the hell was Mistress going to say next? My ears were pricking.
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