One of Our Boas is Missing

As Samuel breezed into Tweedales and
across the tiled lobby a bright fluorescent
poster taped to one of the marbled pillars 
caught his eye.
 'PLEASE KEEP ALL PETS UNDER CONTROL TODAY,' 
it advised. Then in smaller type concluded:
'Thank you. Tweedales' Management.'
  It was Wednesday: Bring a Pet to Work 
Day. The day that office managers around
the country had been dreading for weeks,
and was now upon them.
  Bringing a pet to work was a new custom; 
brought to England's shores from America. 
There, once a year, dogs would be taken
to the workplace to relieve the daily 
stresses of human toil. Except, that is, 
in places like Burnt Thumb, Squashabug, 
and Redneck County where local citizens 
took old grizzlies and leggy elk to keep the office photocopier 
company. Still, they like to do things differently in America; which
is why it's good to have a large expanse of briny ocean separating 
us from the fast-living culture of our dear American cousins.

  The only criteria for the suitability of pets entering Tweedales
was that they were not poisonous, lethal, or downright unsociable.
Categories that some human beings could also be said to fall into,
but which didn't prevent them from entering the workplace. Indeed,
Samuel mused to himself that half of Tweedales' upper management were,
in any case, barking mad, so the addition of a few real canines
scampering along the corridors of power would make little difference
to office routine.

  As Tweedales' Assistant Office Manager Samuel decided that
prudence called for a tour of the building; just to make certain
what species of animals were lurking in various darkened corners.
  Mrs Platt, Samuel's immediate boss, had brought in her goldfish.
Well it was some sort of fish; in a round bubble bowl. The fish
didn't have a set of enormous dentures which would categorise it
as a pirhana, nor was it small enough to be a guppy; so Samuel put
it down as a plain old goldfish.
  In the photocopying department one of the two ladies who minded 
the machines had brought along her pet boa constrictor which coiled
itself up among the reams of bleached white copier paper. It wasn't 
a very big boa, but Samuel decided that with the consumption of enough
frogs, chickens, and neighbourhood dogs and hamsters the snake should
fatten up very nicely; large enough, if natural history books were to
be believed, to make a splendidly stylish handbag and some snazzy
slippers for its owner.
  'Crusher' Jones, the inter-departmental postman and Tweedales'
answer to a human hoover, possessed a canary that twittered and sang
merrily in its laquered chinese cage. Attaching this to his post
trolley, Crusher wheeled the cage around the building on his morning
tour so that all could admire the bird and its splendid home.

  Cruising past the staff canteen Samuel was pleased to see that 
a 'NO PETS ALLOWED' sign was already pinned to the door. It had been
agreed, in the interests of health, that no pets were to set a paw
within the confines of the company's canteen. Not even a gerbil
secreted in a handbag, or up someone's underpants, was permitted.
After all, one could never be sure that the rodents wouldn't be
accidentally casseroled, barbecued, or drown in asparagus soup.
  As Samuel thought about the warning sign he wondered whether dogs
and cats contemplated the strange human habit of sitting on chairs
to eat their food, and that humans did not have their names painted
round the sides of dinner plates and pudding bowls.

  In the Accounts Department, Arnold Grabbit had brought along his 
Siamese cat to brighten up the otherwise dull routine of totting up
rows of digits. It was ever so precious a feline; not allowing anyone
to get within stroking or tickling distance. But what else would you
expect from a Siamese called Miss Moneybags ? Strangely, considering
the size of Tweedales' money-laundering department, Grabbit's moggie
was the only pet the company's financial slickers had graced the
office with. A fact which left Samuel thinking that perhaps there was
a grain of truth in the widely held belief that accountants and
book-keepers were a pretty square and soulless lot.

  Elsewhere in the building Samuel encountered dogs and cats in 
a variety of shapes, sizes, and flavours of colour. Some could only be
described as looking like bedraggled rodents. Others resembled fluffy
shoe dusters. The less disciplined ones were tethered to desks and
typewriters - fusty old Tweedales only taking delivery of its first
desktop computers a couple of years previously, and gradually
replacing the old manual finger exercisers.
  Pooches accompanying their masters around the offices sniffed
frantically for dog-wee patches - that quintessential canine idea
of heaven. And more than a few times owners had to restrain their
corgis, poodles and labradors from relieving themselves against
Tweedales' office furniture and hallowed walls. Still, it could be
said that the anxiety of encountering a mad-house like Tweedales
would be enough to make any self-respecting canine pee profusely.

  Further perambulations around the building brought Samuel to 
the Sales Department where a wiry mongrel with a definite attitude
problem was standing its ground. Such an evil disposition did it
have that Samuel wondered whether the dog had attended one of Doctor
Rotweiler's assertiveness courses. Even the owner's threat of instant
deportation to Korea or China - where native tastebuds appreciate a
spot of crispy-fried canine to accompany their egg noodle - failed
to silence the mutt. Eventually fido was removed from the building
on account of its incivility towards human kind. Much more charming
was a King Charles spaniel with lolloping ears which accompanied one
of the company's marketing gurus as he darted between offices.
Impeccably behaved, the spaniel was a treat to behold.
  And then there were the cats. Dozens of them. Curled up on the
tops of filing cabinets and unclaimed office chairs, and tripping
unhindered along the corridors as if they owned the place.
  Despite this invasion of fur, feathers and other assorted
animalia, Samuel satisfied himself there was some semblance of
order within Tweedales' walls and returned to his office to start
the morning's work.

  As he passed Mrs Platt's adjoining door an unfamiliar movement 
caught Samuel's eye and he about-turned to investigate; a spritely 
lurch through the door bringing him face to face with a ginger 
and white moggie dipping an outstretched paw into the goldfish bowl 
on his boss's cluttered desk. Samuel's heart leapt into his mouth.
  "Shoo ! Shoo !"
  The Moggie didn't take a blind bit of notice; dollops of water
plopping noisily onto the desktop as it continued chasing the fish.
Samuel sprang forward and waved his arms.
  "Shoo ! Get out of here !"
  The cat looked up as if to say: 'What business is it of yours ?'
  Ever since the disastrous occasion when Samuel had volunteered 
to look after a neighbour's kamikaze kittens, he had been suspicious
of feline fickleness. The ginger moggie clearly had designs on the
imprisoned fish which was all too aware of its perilous predicament
and darted back and forth; a tasty snack to make a cat's whiskers
curl and bring purrs of contentment. Samuel swiped the air close to
the moggie which screeched and fled from the office, leaving Samuel
to blot the spilled water with a newspaper.

  The first real mishap of the day took place later that morning,
and had rather gruesome undertones. A member of the sales team for
widgets, or grommets, or some other such minor Tweedales product,
had brought a couple of pet fish to work in a glass water filter
jug. After all, fish tanks were a trifle cumbersome to lug around
London's public transport system.
  Unbeknown to the owner of these prized specimens a colleague had
tipped the contents of the glass jug into the department's
coffee-making gadget. It was only some time later, when a few yellowy
fish scales and stray eyeball were found floating in the elevenses
coffee, that the fate of the two pet fish was discovered. Needless
to say their owner was heartbroken, and more concerned about the
loss of his fish than the coffee drinkers who wretched and vomited
for the rest of the morning.

  The thought of broiled goldfish diverted Samuel's thoughts to our 
distorted view of the world, thanks to pets. Who could possibly
imagine that millions of hungry people roamed the world in search of
a square meal when our television screens belted out advertisements
for bunny rabbit stew and lamb with rice for overpampered dogs and
cats ? A mental perambulation which briefly turned Samuel's thoughts
to the Royal corgis and what they were fed. Tinned dog food ? Scraps
of venison and other aristocratic victuals ? Or maybe a tasty butler's
ankle ? The subject of Royal dogs, however, did not really interest
Samuel and he let the thoughts drift aimlessly away.
  He even spent several minutes on the phone to Tracy in Accounts;
exchanging thoughts on the possession of pets. They concluded that
pets, like children, rather tied you down and required the hiring of
minders when the owners wanted a quiet moment to themselves. You
could always sell your pet, or neuter it, or gas it; which could not
be said for one's bothersome or promiscuous teenage offspring.
  The phone rang again.
  "Yes."
  "Mr Wimbush," said a worried voice. "Ambrose is missing."
  "Remind me. What sort of pet is he ?"
  "A snake."
  Samuel's heart skipped a beat. "Ye gads!" he screeched.
  "He's not poisonous Mr Wimbush. Ambrose is a boa constrictor."
  The faintest glimmer of relief swept across Samuel's troubled brow.
  "I'll be right down."
  Hot footed, Samuel arrived in the photocopying room a few minutes
later. There he found Glenda, Ambrose's owner, frantically poking
behind the copying machines, and her assistant shuffling boxes of
paper across the floor.
  "When did you last see Ambrose ?"
  "I'm not sure. Maybe an hour ago. He was under that table," Glenda
said, pointing anxiously. "Curled up inside an empty paper box that
he'd found. I really didn't pay much attention to him after that."
  As Glenda recounted Ambrose's movements Samuel found himself
unconsciously studying her tanned face which was crinkled and
crazed, just like snake skin. She was one of those individuals for
whom the word holiday meant baking in the Spanish sun for two or
three weeks until burnt to a deep crisp brown. She also had a
propensity for over-dressing to a point that she often looked a
trifle tarty. No, Glenda would definitely not pass for a member of
the muesli mafia.
  "Ambrose couldn't have snuck inside a copier could he ?"
  "The gaps aren't big enough," Glenda assured Samuel, who looked
inside a machine just to be doubly certain.

  When Tweedales' office management committee had sat down 
a few weeks previously to discuss preparations for the 'Bring a Pet 
to Work Day' they hadn't considered the possibilities of snakes
slithering out of view, or being on the loose. Dangerous beasties
with sharp teeth, such as lions and leopards, were obviously out of
the question. So, too, were poisonous wee nasties like tarantulas,
and other creepy things which frighten the living daylights out of
everyone except those obsessed with nature's uglier and more
dangerous members; specimens which generally come from steamy
tropical parts of the world where national flags are designed to
look like sweet wrappers. As for boa constrictors; well they had
been permitted on the grounds that boas didn't produce toxic shocks
in their victims, although there was an outside possibility of
strangling an unsuspecting member of Tweedales' staff, or even
the Old Toad himself.

  A thought ricocheted round Samuel's mind as to why Glenda 
had chosen Ambrose as a name. Could it be after a long-lost relative 
or someone she loathed as a child ? Even an ex-boyfriend perhaps ?
It's strange the names people give their pets. Tiddles or Fifi for
cats; hamsters called Henry or Harriet; and Rover, Fido and Bowser
for mutts. Of course pets got a pretty good deal - free board and
lodging, and occasional outings to the seaside or municipal park -
although Samuel decided the worst part of becoming a pet must be
tolerating the dumb names chosen by one's Master. Could that be why
dogs barked so much, and cats sulked; because it was the only way to
communicate animal displeasure at having one's self-respect trampled
on ? Well, would you want to be called Trixibelle or Spot ? Then
there are those silly humans who think they can talk doggy language;
staring their pets in the eye and mouthing 'woof, woof' or 'bow-wow'.
Grrr-o-w-l. Silly humans.
  "You haven't sent anything to be mailed, have you ?" Samuel quizzed
Glenda; a vision passing through his mind of Sir Hector opening a
package to find Ambrose glaring and hissing at him. Well the
cantankerous Old Toad deserved Ambrose anyway.
  "No. Crusher's not been along since his morning post round."
  At least that eliminated Ambrose from having found his way down to
the basement. Or at least Samuel hoped so.
  "Have you looked in the waste bins ?"
  For the next few minutes the three of them rummaged through the
contents of two black dustbins tipped onto the floor, but Ambrose
failed to materialise.

  Then a nagging suspicion entered Samuel's thoughts. Could Ambrose 
have found the old air-conditioning system ? Samuel looked around.
  "Where does the air-conditioning come in ?"
  "Over there," Glenda's assistant advised, pointing to an antique
wooden panel set low in the wall.
  Samuel walked across the room and peered down. It was ajar! Not
exactly open, but certainly not closed and sealed. Could Ambrose
have manoeuvred his way inside was the question ?
  "He might have got in here. The cover's loose."
  "I'm sure we would have seen Ambrose sliding across the floor,"
Glenda volunteered.
  "Not if we were in the middle of one of our busy periods," her
assistant offered.
  Samuel knelt down and lifted the hinged grille. He couldn't see
more than a couple of feet inside and groped the inky darkness as far
as he could reach, finally retracting his hand which was blackened
with filth.
  "I'm going to have to investigate further," he said, reaching for
the telephone. "I'll call young Benjamin in Maintenance."

  Like the post room which Crusher Jones haunted, the Maintenance 
Department was situated in the subterranean bowels of Tweedales, 
and eventually young Benjamin appeared, carrying a small torch and 
a pair of overalls for Samuel. Benjamin, who could have been no more
than sixteen or seventeen years old, looked on with a puzzled
expression as Samuel climbed into the overalls; the penny dropping
as Samuel knelt and again lifted the hinged grille. Samuel turned.
  "Ben, I want you to search the ducts on the floors below."
  "Who ? Me ?"
  "Yes."
  "Do I have to Mr Wimbush ? I'm going to get all dirty."
  "Yes, you do."
  "Aww, Mr Wimbush that's not fair. Me mum'll go spare."
  The reluctant lad left the room to carry out his orders; Glenda and
her assistant giving faint smiles of encouragement.
  "Got a broom, or anything like that ?" Samuel asked them.
  "Er, no." There was a thoughtful pause, then: "What about this ?"
  Glenda handed Samuel a rolled up umbrella. One of those practical
old-fashioned ones designed to cope with inconvenient deluges of
London rain and beat off fellow commuters and tourists that try to
jump queues for the bus.
  "That'll do," he said, reaching for it.
  With that Samuel began his exploration of the ducts; squinting into
the gloom ahead of the torch beam and occasionally rapping the sides
of the old ducting with the borrowed umbrella. This produced a deep,
resonant booming noise that no doubt had everyone in Tweedales
wondering just what was happening.

  When Samuel had started out for work earlier in the day he never 
dreamed that his afternoon would be spent chasing after a snake, and
he wondered if, in a previous life, he had been a zoo keeper or lion
tamer, or even an air-conditioning salesman for that matter.
  The antique system had been installed during Tweedales' days of
financial success, but hadn't been used for years. Everywhere there
were patches of rust, clods of grey dust, and brittle old cobwebs the
size of dishcloths. It was still a tight squeeze in the ducts; there
being just enough room to shuffle forwards and backwards on one's
knees, but no room to turn around. Samuel followed the passageway for
yards, then investigated turnings off to the left and right. A clod
of ancient dirt dusted Samuel's face and made him cough. Now he
understood how miners working in those claustrophobic narrow coal
seams must feel, and more than once it crossed his mind what would
happen in the event of getting stuck or having an accident. After
all, who knew what might be lurking round the next corner ? A rat the
size of a cat perhaps, spiders as big as dinner plates, or a drop
into a gaping abyss ?
  The hours dribbled by. Three o'clock, four o'clock, five. At ten
past six Samuel emerged from the ventilating system, blackened like a
chimney sweep. There was no one to greet him. No Glenda, no assistant,
no young Benjamin. In fact Samuel could have been there all night for
all that anyone in Tweedales cared, and the thought that someone could
so easily disappear without trace or concern rather disturbed Samuel.

  A post-mortem of the 'Bring a Pet to Work Day' a week later came
to the conclusion that the exercise of bringing animals to the
workplace would not be repeated in the near future. At least not at
Tweedales. Even if pets were the perfect antidote to office stress
they were too much of a distraction, or simply got under one's feet.
And Ambrose ? Well, they never did find him.

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