Taking Billy to the Vet
Miss T is recuperating. I am not jealous. The great thing is that during this time she is invincible and the world is her oyster and, having not seen her a week (and it took that long to recover!), I thought this evening would provide an ideal time to sit on a sofa in a tranquil village wrapped on Oxfordshire countryside drinking tea. Miss T agreed and I spent the day dreaming, until I learnt that 'Billy had to go to the vet' at the time I was going to arrive and could I help. I am not so keen on live things, but I wondered whether Billy was going to the vet to go to cat heaven. This, I thought, would be an ideal opportunity to be the 'friend in waiting' catch the weeping Traves and whip the body of the deceased into my pocket and depart.
It didn't quite work out like that. I was shuffled into the kitchen and instructed to hold the 'cat basket like this, this bit like this and then I'll shovel him in and we do this'. Right you are I thought and as I gathered my composure trying to work out which bit was which Miss T disappeared, rapidly reappearing with Billy in a strong hold. He was promptly shoveled into the receptacle and I did well to stop it spinning out of control and got the bars on despite the binary fission going on with his claws and paws.
The Vet was a jolly chap, tall and spindly with an impeccable sense of fashion (he admired my jumper in-between gasping breaths about his wife) and most impressed that I was there for moral support. I assured him I was only there because I hoped Billy would peg it. The door closed and they were gone. 15minutes later the door opened to reveal a calm Billy and bedraggled Miss T mouthing 'help'. Only too willing to assist I went into the room as the Vet exited announcing the need for an amputation. Sadly he was joking. Miss T now knowing all about the Vets family pets was relieved to make it back home after all the chatter.
The diagnosis - stress, whether that was for the feline, the human or society at large I do not know, but I do know that I didn't get any tea.
It didn't quite work out like that. I was shuffled into the kitchen and instructed to hold the 'cat basket like this, this bit like this and then I'll shovel him in and we do this'. Right you are I thought and as I gathered my composure trying to work out which bit was which Miss T disappeared, rapidly reappearing with Billy in a strong hold. He was promptly shoveled into the receptacle and I did well to stop it spinning out of control and got the bars on despite the binary fission going on with his claws and paws.
The Vet was a jolly chap, tall and spindly with an impeccable sense of fashion (he admired my jumper in-between gasping breaths about his wife) and most impressed that I was there for moral support. I assured him I was only there because I hoped Billy would peg it. The door closed and they were gone. 15minutes later the door opened to reveal a calm Billy and bedraggled Miss T mouthing 'help'. Only too willing to assist I went into the room as the Vet exited announcing the need for an amputation. Sadly he was joking. Miss T now knowing all about the Vets family pets was relieved to make it back home after all the chatter.
The diagnosis - stress, whether that was for the feline, the human or society at large I do not know, but I do know that I didn't get any tea.
posted by MortimerBones at
1:32 PM
4 Comments:
You describe a transaction whose motivation was essentially callous with such aplomb.
oopsie......
Oh sweetie, I am very grateful, and should any of the creatures I share a house with peg it, you have first call on the body.
'Any'? I shall make a will tomorrow with detailed instructions about disposal. And it won't involve being stuck under a bucket in the vicinity of NB Bones....
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