At the vets
Harry and Jack (or Donner and Blitzen as we are also wont to call them) had to go to the vets again for their booster shots. Because they are older and bigger they seemed more aware of what was going on, and unfortunately a good deal more distressed by it, particularly when first cajoled into their carry-case and on the taxi ride: the road seemed bumpier than last time and elicited little yelps and cries from two small creatures who simply had no way of understanding that all this was for their own good.
All is well and in fact the vet commented on the glossiness of their coats. And they really do have a good shine to them; black and sleek. Harry was first out of the carrier this time, and lost no time in bounding straight off the table and into - of all things - the bin in the corner of the small surgery. ‘Ah. Ye’ve jumped into the bin, have ye?’ stated the vet. We both looked towards the bin. A small black kitten head rose almost indiscernibly from within the bin’s black liner. Two small green eyes peered out, wide open.
Having been retrieved Harry tried to re-type his computer record (twice) and knock the pet scales weighing tray off its rest. I had to pick him up from the floor where he’d jumped down and cuddle him a couple of times as well. He wasn’t at all happy being injected. When he was done and back in the carrier, Jack came out and was much more amenable – too astonished to engage in many antics or escape bids. But Harry cried pitiably until his little brother was returned to him, and after that they cuddled up close and washed each other’s heads for comfort. Poor things. They are due back soon for neutering and micro-chipping and again have no idea what’s coming and why. Luckily they aren’t showing signs of fear and resentment towards us, and if anything, are even more inclined to a bit of fuss than usual.
While we were waiting for the appointment I shared the vet’s waiting room with an elderly lady who was clearly distressed about her pet being given unauthorised tests and she subsequently being charged for it. It transpired that said pet was in need of an operation immediately. The vet was consulted and it was agreed that she would be charged no more than a thousand pounds altogether, and to bring ‘Sandy’ in on Monday morning. ‘I’m not made of money,’ the lady protested. But she was clearly very attached indeed to her animal, who, she told me in subsequent conversation, was her sixteen year old cat. I looked at our five-month old kittens in their carry-case, fur visibly sleek even through the bars.
After she left another owner and his feline charge emerged from the surgery. The cat was a big, long-haired, black-and-a-little-bit-of-white moggy, and was yowling continuously, though not with any great expectancy of response, I thought. ‘He’s totally blind,’ his owner explained. And indeed when I saw his face properly there were two large milky green orbs, utterly opaque, almost luminously so. ‘I had to bring him in because he just went out for a stroll in the garden and another cat attacked him,’ the man said. The yowling continued, as though confirming the story of this mean act on the part of a sighted Tom.
To have a cat is clearly one big responsibility. As I write our charges are playing happily around us, the traumas of the day presumably forgotten. We’ve just poured a nip of the monastic liquor from Altotting. To their good health.
All is well and in fact the vet commented on the glossiness of their coats. And they really do have a good shine to them; black and sleek. Harry was first out of the carrier this time, and lost no time in bounding straight off the table and into - of all things - the bin in the corner of the small surgery. ‘Ah. Ye’ve jumped into the bin, have ye?’ stated the vet. We both looked towards the bin. A small black kitten head rose almost indiscernibly from within the bin’s black liner. Two small green eyes peered out, wide open.
Having been retrieved Harry tried to re-type his computer record (twice) and knock the pet scales weighing tray off its rest. I had to pick him up from the floor where he’d jumped down and cuddle him a couple of times as well. He wasn’t at all happy being injected. When he was done and back in the carrier, Jack came out and was much more amenable – too astonished to engage in many antics or escape bids. But Harry cried pitiably until his little brother was returned to him, and after that they cuddled up close and washed each other’s heads for comfort. Poor things. They are due back soon for neutering and micro-chipping and again have no idea what’s coming and why. Luckily they aren’t showing signs of fear and resentment towards us, and if anything, are even more inclined to a bit of fuss than usual.
While we were waiting for the appointment I shared the vet’s waiting room with an elderly lady who was clearly distressed about her pet being given unauthorised tests and she subsequently being charged for it. It transpired that said pet was in need of an operation immediately. The vet was consulted and it was agreed that she would be charged no more than a thousand pounds altogether, and to bring ‘Sandy’ in on Monday morning. ‘I’m not made of money,’ the lady protested. But she was clearly very attached indeed to her animal, who, she told me in subsequent conversation, was her sixteen year old cat. I looked at our five-month old kittens in their carry-case, fur visibly sleek even through the bars.
After she left another owner and his feline charge emerged from the surgery. The cat was a big, long-haired, black-and-a-little-bit-of-white moggy, and was yowling continuously, though not with any great expectancy of response, I thought. ‘He’s totally blind,’ his owner explained. And indeed when I saw his face properly there were two large milky green orbs, utterly opaque, almost luminously so. ‘I had to bring him in because he just went out for a stroll in the garden and another cat attacked him,’ the man said. The yowling continued, as though confirming the story of this mean act on the part of a sighted Tom.
To have a cat is clearly one big responsibility. As I write our charges are playing happily around us, the traumas of the day presumably forgotten. We’ve just poured a nip of the monastic liquor from Altotting. To their good health.
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