There’s an April shower going on outside. I know this because I’ve just been caught up in it. I popped out to the local Co-op to get eggs and Fairy Liquid, to make what will be a pretty adventurous omelette. Sadly the rain outside is not my main worry. It’s drizzling a little bit in the house too because the place is missing something. Quite literally a thing. A thing from another planet, a fearsome creature; red in tooth and shedding of claw. Children huddle in corners and whisper of her ferocious swipe and many is the time I’ve almost walked away at the front door and booked myself into a Premier Inn for the night. I refer not to ‘the wife’, you cheeky bugger, but to the over-lady of the house; ‘THE CAT’. Drum-roll next time please.
It’s quite astonishing to consider that I’ve known her for 7 years now. She came with ‘the wife’ and given some of the in-laws I’ve picked up she really is the least of my troubles. Of course, as I am not known as a pet person, particularly cats and dogs, ‘the cat’ and I have something of a love/hate relationship. It used to be a case of we loved not being together because we hated each other but these days it more that we’d hate to admit it but deep down we love each other. As you can imagine she is far more reliant on me than I am on her, but today she was whisked off to the vets and I realise that’s not strictly true. The house feels empty without her padding around and curling up on the sofa, occasionally flicking one scornful, mocking eye in my pathetic direction. I miss her queuing up for food that she then decides she doesn’t like since an hour ago or going through the charade of being scared by my every step just so she can tell on me when ‘the wife’ gets home.
She was really off colour yesterday, having chucked up a couple of times and so I decided it best to stay in for the day and watch her limp around to her favourite spots and then just sit, uncomfortably, waiting for the affection even she was powerless to reject. I felt very sad and as the situation hadn’t improved by this morning ‘the wife’ called the vets. This was after a tormented evening where even I plonked a big kiss on her super fluffy little head, convinced this would be her last night flumped in the bathroom waiting for the underfloor heating to kick in. Thankfully not, so I dutifully waited for her to be shoved gracelessly into her box and then drove ‘the wife’ to the vet for some cat TLC (Take Lots of Cash).
I pretend to be a heartless little shit some of the time but it was hard going at the vets. ‘The cat’ seemed to just give in (customary for her, apparently) and flattened herself out on the table to have her kidneys and blocked faeces fondled by the nice lady (I’m tired of fondling her kidneys and blocked faeces all on my own). We were advised it would be best for her to stay in overnight at which point the poor things eyeballs ballooned to the size of medicine balls. She’s getting old now and we must run some checks. Now, I know that people moan about vet bills but by fuckery they have a very good point. When the vet read out the potential bill for an overnight stay, blood tests and a drip plus a few other bits it was the best part of £1000!! For that you could give her extensive plastic surgery or a solid gold arsehole or just replace all her parts and turn her in the $6 million dollar cat. She could start her crime fighting by solving the mystery of what’s been crapping all over my freshly turned flower beds. I think I already know the answer to that.
Anyway, she has some kidney issues (join the club) and ‘the wife’, who is very much in control of all things catty, has (quite reasonably) opted to spend the necessary instead of the downright absurd and all we can hope for is the return of ‘the cat’ to the house, in as best condition as possible. Yes, she will resume annoying me on many levels, just as she always has, but much better that than not be there at all. Who loves ya baby? Me and your mummy, that’s who.
G B Hewitt. 7.4.2016.