Rachel sat unmoved in front of her computer. My eyesight was never good, but the vet’s Receptionist had nails like talons. She tapped them over the desk in a series of scales as she thought this offer over.

“Only if they use ‘Crème de la Mer’ for our massage,” she said.

“They do!” replied Mistress. “And that’s a promise.”

As we left the surgery, my tail dropped between my legs. I knew the picture Mistress was referring to. Waldo Sibthorpe had been an important man and a politician. He went all the way back to Queen Victoria. The painting of him in the sitting room was a family heirloom. Selling it was bad news.

As we walked down the path, a familiar sight came through the gate to meet us. It was the bitch from hell: the terrior who fell somewhere between a dachsy and a poodle.

Although the owner pulled her back, she threw herself at me in lunatic fashion.

“Get off!” I snarled. “Your claws need a good clipping.”

“And your tail got knotted when you were born, monkey face!” the terrior
whispered.

Mistress could see that I was not in the mood to go quietly. She lifted me without warning and from the safety of her arms, I gave my second giant sneeze of the day, aiming it at the bitch beneath.

“He sounds rather unwell,” said her owner.

“Nothing serious,” Mistress replied.

The terrior slunk away from us. She bared her teeth. I gave one of my devil may care grins. I would eat my whiskers if she didn’t have a good dose of Kennel cough by the next morning.