.... Even Little Sparrows!

I had the highest regard for the British Fire Service; a dedicated band of men and women who regularly risked their lives to ensure the safety of others. On numerous occasions, cheerfully and without complaint they had assisted me and my colleagues in rescuing trapped and often injured animals from a whole diversity of situations. Game for anything; good for a laugh; they are the finest band of professionals one could ever wish to meet.Alas, the finest grapevine has its shrivelled fruit and within the Wappingdon Fire Service, Station Officer Prewitt was undoubtedly, a prune. His face was wrinkled; cold, round piggy eyes almost lost under myriad folds of skin. He was short and stooped, though at the age of fifty-four, still able to climb a ladder more skilfully than any younger counterpart. The sense of humour he may once have possessed had eroded till only bitter sarcasm remained, and as he hailed from the more southerly counties of his native Wales, his voice was high-pitched and sing-song in its accents, somehow rendering the scathing,twisted wit a further dagger-like quality. It was not that he was bad at his job. He held more bravery awards than any other officer in the station. It was simply that he hated animals. He loathed and despised them. And if there was one animal he detested more than any other, it was a cat. Naturally, he had no time for the RSPCA in general, and RSPCA Inspectors in particular. His contempt for me was heightened when, two weeks previously I had called for Brigade assistance to rescue a parrot from a tree in Stipley. The bird, a family pet, had fled its perch trailing four feet of light chain from one leg and, having escaped through an open window proceeded into the topmost branches of a large oak tree, entangling the chain and preventing any further bid for freedom. In the course of the ensuing rescue a young fireman had been bitten by the parrot, necessitating hospital treatment. The wound kept him from work for a week and Station Officer Prewitt had taken great exception to losing a man from his team ‘for the sake of a worthless, overgrown budgerigar’. He had bent my ears accordingly. It was with some trepidation that I wound down the window and faced this man. His opening comments, loaded with his usual sarcasm, did nothing to improve my confidence. “So sorry...did I wake you, Mister Adams? If you like we’ll go away and come back in half an hour. My lads have nothing better to do, you know!” I managed a watery smile, “Good morning, Mister Prewitt. Very nice of you to turn out...you know how much I appreciate it.” His cold steel eyes narrowed, “What is it this time?” he snapped, “A dog in the drains? A mouse under the floorboards, perhaps? Or maybe...no, not a birdie in a tree again?” “No,” I replied miserably, “A cat in a pigeon’s nest.” Mister Prewitt jumped back in mock horror. “Good Lord! That can’t be much fun for the pigeon, can it?” “The pigeon isn’t actually there, Mister Prewitt. It’s an abandoned nest. The cat seems to have...eh...moved in.” “Moved in! A squatter, you mean...and you want us to pitch him out again?” There was a noticeable pause for effect between each sentence. Deep down, I sensed that Station Officer Prewitt was really quite enjoying himself. “That hardly seems fair, Mister Adams, turning a poor animal out of its home! Cruelty, some might call it! Still, if you say it must be evicted, then evicted it must be.” Finally, he turned towards his men, “Get the big extender ready, lads.” The firecrew had been standing by the tender, giggling at my discomfiture. I didn’t blame them; their leader’s sarcasm could be quite amusing if you weren’t on the receiving end. At his command they grappled with the huge, wooden extending ladder on its two great wheels, wrestling it from atop the fire-engine. Meanwhile Station Officer Prewitt was squinting at the pigeon’s nest high in the branches of the pine tree. “I see no cat, Mister Adams!” he said at last. My discomfort increased further as I struggled to maintain a semblance of dignity. “Er, no...I think it may be asleep.” “Asleep! Are you sure it’s there at all, man! You have seen the cat, I take it?” “Umm...well...not exactly...” I was faltering, “But the woman in the house saw it plainly not half an hour ago...from her bedroom window.” I finished lamely, looking desperately around for any sign of the householder. She was nowhere to be seen. The Station Officer threw me a contemptuous glance, refraining from further comment. The great extending ladder was winched up until it was level with the nest, sixty feet above. Steel legs stabilised the lower section but the top, unsupported, swung gently in the breeze. I did not envy the fireman who would climb up there. It was all in a day’s work for them, but I got vertigo standing on a chair. Station Officer Prewitt had been supervising the erection of the ladder, checking the winch was secure and the metal legs locked firmly in place. For a moment my mind went numb when he turned in my direction and with a leer, pointed skywards. "Up you go, Mister Adams, up you go."