SUSIE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER than to pop to the shops at this time of day. The High Street is crawling with clients. They’re practically breeding before her eyes. As she spots What’s-Her-Name from Last Week’s Surgery From Hell with the Dog that Died in Recovery, Susie dives into Tight-Nots (surely a wool shop at midday represents a safe haven from clients, the elderly cat-owningcompulsive- knitting-fraternity being safely tucked up for their post-dinner naps?) only to spy Mr I-Never-Pay- My-Bill-On-Time buying three balls of Rainbow-In-Lite (what for? So he can stitch up Larry the Lurcher’s next wire wound with something prettier than 2/0 vicryl?). Susie scuttles from the wool shop and trains her eyes on her lunchtime goal: Beany’s Burgers – they do the best burgers in the world and Susie is already fantasising about their special of the month: Kiss My Buns. Pretending she’s invisible, Susie bulldozes her way through the ambling shoppers who’ve clearly never been acquainted with the gastronomic urgency spawned from a five-minute-lunchbreak-while-on-call. “Ah, Susie the vet!” A giant hand descends on her shoulder and grips with a tenacity not to be unshaken. Susie blinks. It’s hard to read her assailant’s face: the man’s eyes are hidden behind mirror glasses in whose lenses Susie’s own alarmed reaction dances with a sort of Save-Me- Who-the-Hell- Are-You look. “I’ve been meaning to phone the surgery for more of Nasher’s pills,” the man announces. Really his voice is so loud he’s clearing the flow of passing people like a boulder dividing a river into two streams. “Perhaps you could put them up for me this afternoon?” Susie’s brain whirs. There can’t be that many Nashers on their books, can there? And a quick capitulation could rid herself of Mirror-Lenses and bring her Kiss My Buns special-of-the-month that much closer. Susie nods. Fatal error. But Mirror-Lenses hasn’t finished yet. “Barney was sick once last week.” “Oh dear.” Susie arranges her face into what she hopes is a mildlysympathetic- but-not-too-concernedby- this-news expression. “What? But that’s good, isn’t it? You said yourself that if he vomits once weekly that shows a huge improvement.” The giant hand grinds into Susie’s shoulder, and Susie is aware that the passing crowds, eddying from the current of Mirror-Lenses’ voice as they are, are also wagging their ears as they pass. “Yes, right, great, vomiting,” Susie says. She can picture the burger – possibly the last of its kind on offer that day – being bought at that precise moment by one of the ambling shoppers. “I really must go.” But Mirror-Lenses hasn’t finished yet. The giant fingers knead Susie’s deltoid with brutal intent. “Of course, what I’ll never understand…” Mirror-Lenses leans into Susie and suddenly swipes the glasses off his face and into his hair (oh no! It’s him! Him! What’s-His-Face with the What-Not-Dog that’s almost but not quite dead with What’s-It-ANoma!) “…is how you said last year that Barney had weeks if not days to live, and he’s still going strong.” By now No-Longer-Mirror-Lenses with the What-Not-Dog that’s almost but not quite dead with What’s-It-ANoma is shouting. Passing ears aren’t just wagging; eyes are staring too. Susie prays for a swift but effective fork of lightning. None comes. “I could sue you,” What’s-His-Face with the What-Not-Dog that’s almost but not quite dead with What’s-It-ANoma adds for good measure. Then Susie’s stomach emits the longest, most indignant, and desperate of growls. Her stomach is reaching out to that burger, and quite frankly, even What’s-His-Face with the What-Not- Dog that’s almost but not quite dead with What’s-It-A-Noma no longer matters. “I’ve got one thing to say about that,” Susie says. Hunger has made her desperate, ruthless, even savage. She can picture that burger. She can smell that burger. She can almost taste that burger. “Kiss my buns.”
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with those of the author.
