Malcolm D Welshman - Pets in a Pickle

Its fun and should bring a smile to your face.

Sir Terry Wogan

Your story is a corker.

Richard Madeley

If you enjoyed James Herriot, you will enjoy Malcolm Welshmans rollicking story of eccentric animals and even more eccentric humans.

Celia Haddon, author and former Daily Telegraph columnist

If you have a pet you love, then you will love Pets in a Pickle . These hilarious stories are straight from a vets pen and will keep you chuckling.

Stella Whitelaw, writer, journalist, lover of cats,
with over 30 novels published

I loved this book although Ill never be able to look at my vet in the same way again. Whether or not youre mad about animals, there are laughs aplenty here.

Denise Robertson, Agony Aunt, ITVs This Morning.

Its a lighthearted if you like animals, youll like this, especially the two-footed variety pageturner.

Anna Raeburn, LBC Radios Book of the Week.

This book is a modern James Herriot tale set in the rolling hills of Sussexbursting with good humour, intelligence and information. It brims with the same cleverly drawn characters that collect in my own vets practice how I empathise with Paul Mitchell, the new graduate employed by the vintage owner, Dr Crystal Sharpe. Malcolms writing is stylish, moving, original, beautifully crafted with real characters, believable situations and observant dialogue that always rings true. A must read for vet students and pet lovers. They will adore the funny episodes that beset this naive vet at Prospect House.

Barbara Large MBE FRSA HFUW,
Founder Director Winchester Writers Conference.

BY J IM W IGHT , SON OF J AMES H ERRIOT
AND AUTHOR OF T HE R EAL J AMES H ERRIOT

J ames Herriot became, through his writing, the most famous veterinarian in the world. Two things, to me, stand out as integral to his worldwide success as an author: his books are not just about vets treating animals, they are about people, and he writes about others, not just himself.

Malcolm Welshmans book, Pets in a Pickle , is, too, not just a collection of animals stories. The author paints a vivid picture of many fascinating characters human and animal resulting in a most enjoyable and amusing read. The veterinary profession is one enriched by the most interesting and challenging situations, wherein the veterinary surgeon is confronted by a variety of unforgettable characters. Malcolm Welshmans experiences as a young veterinary surgeon, recounted in a most readable way, illustrate this very well.

It is often said that vets have little interest in books or TV programmes about other members of their profession. It is regarded as old hat, revealing nothing new. I did not find this to be the case with this book. The author describes his early life in practice in a most entertaining way. The book is extremely easy to read and the text gives the reader a most enjoyable insight into the unpredictable but fascinating life of the veterinary surgeon.

I wish this book every success.

I d been whistling a tune from The Sound of Music when I left Prospect House the previous week: Odl lay ee Odl lay hee hee

How foolish. How nave of me. What a silly little goatherd.

Now here I was, the following Monday morning, with the waiting room (not the hills) alive with the sound of dogs snuffling and whining, cats miaowing and yowling and several budgerigars chirruping and screeching. Hardly Julie Andrews with her von Trapp family. But then I was hardly Julie Andrews, even though I had a gold stud in each ear lobe, hair brown, not fair down to my collar, and a voice which would rise an octave or two when provoked.

No I was a vet, a new graduate. And this was my first day in practice. To think I was about to unleash myself on someones unsuspecting pet. Quite sickening really well, for the pet anyway. If he wasnt already ill he soon would be if he knew this novice vet was about to prod and poke him. Now, my lad, get a grip, I said to myself. Youve spent five years getting qualified for this moment. Now go for it. Show them what youre made of.

So I got a grip. Only the door knob in my hand at that precise moment failed to turn as my palm was too sweaty. I gripped harder, turned it and pushed at the waiting room door; it gave way and I tumbled into the room like a startled stoat. There was an immediate hush.

An aged spaniel gave me a rheumy-eyed stare. A chihuahua disgorged a lump of yellow froth on to its owners shoe. Two cats bared their teeth in silent hisses. Then the chihuahua, his throat unblocked, broke the silence with a barrage of staccato yaps. Taking this as his cue to join in, the elderly spaniel lifted his head and started howling at the fluorescent light above him; he was accompanied by a chorus of cats whose plaintive wails rolled round the room like a Mexican wave.

My feeble Mr Kingston? was drowned on its first syllable.

I tried again, louder, flapping my hand as if trying to summon a taxi, not someones pet. Mr Kingston?

The spaniel stopped in mid howl, wagged his tail and pulled eagerly forward on his lead. His owner yanked him back. Not you, stupid, he said.

A diminutive lady cowered in her chair, engulfed by a large wicker basket that wobbled on her knees. Dont worry, she crooned through the bars. Its not us. Were going to see that nice lady vet, Dr Sharpe.

A woman in the far corner poked the youth sitting next to her. Hey, Darren, its us e wants.

The youth continued to sit there, eyes closed, head swaying rhythmically from side to side, plugged in to an iPod clipped to the belt of his jeans. The woman pulled the plug out of one of his ears and smiled across at me. Coming, she shouted.

The spaniel cocked his head and, with a grizzle of expectation, lunged towards her. The owner pulled him back with another Not you, stupid.

The woman kicked the youths shin and he shuffled to his feet with a scowl. Between them, they manoeuvred a large metal cage past the opaque-eyed spaniel who scrabbled forward again with an eager woof, only to be yanked back. Once in the consulting room, they heaved the cage on to the table. The youth quickly plugged himself in again and stood there sashaying from one foot to the other as rap music hissed faintly from his iPod.

Tell im, Darren, said the woman giving him another prod in his ribs. The teenager continued to nod his head and jiggle his hips.

I felt myself beginning to sway and nod in unison with him while at the same time giving him an encouraging smile. Maybe he thought I was taking the mickey because he suddenly stopped jiggling and spoke. Its Fred. He cant eat proper.

I pulled myself together. Right. Lets take a look at Fred then. See what the problem is. Whatever Fred was, he was going to be small fry. No big fish for me. But then perhaps I was expecting too much on my first day. Rather like last week.

My expectations when Id turned up for the interview at Prospect House had been high. Id felt in fine fettle. Full of the spirit of youth. Well, at least as much as any 25-year-old veterinary graduate of that year, 2004, could hold, with a large overdraft burning a hole in my pocket reflecting the knee-holed jeans I normally wore remnants of my cool image. Much better dressed that day, of course open-necked white shirt, linen jacket, cream Chinos. I felt a bit Nol Cowardish. A mad dog? No. An Englishman? Yes. And certainly one out in the midday sun.