As previously mentioned, I am now the proud owner of a cat in a cage. Which makes for an interesting new focal point in my sitting room. It’s a bit like having our own personal freak show. I wouldn’t be surprised if my 6 year old starts charging the streams of children queuing up to come in and peer at the cat: “roll up, roll up, 50p to come in and see the furry chicken with four legs”.
I had to take her back to see the RSPCA vet this week. I was advised to get there an hour before opening time and queue on their doorstep if I wanted to avoid a long wait. This meant getting there at 8am, which was impossible as I had to take the children to school. By the time I arrived, the waiting room, which smelt of a combination of wee, poo and cigarette smoke, was full. It was a terrifying sight to behold and had I known that I was going to have to wait for over three hours, I would have taken her stitches out myself. There was a sign on the door saying that if your pet was frightened by being with all the other animals, they’d move the animal to another room. Never mind the bloody cat, what about me?
I’m not good with dogs, not even small ones without teeth (my mother tells me my fear developed during our time in Africa when each dog carried the threat of rabies), but these dogs were by no means small. I was surrounded by a selection of the most vicious looking members of the canine community that I have ever seen. Killer dogs, wearing spiky collars, straining at their leash to attack anything with a heart beat. I tried various different strategies to avoid getting eaten alive, but couldn’t quite remember what to do. Was I supposed to look them in the eye and stare them out? Or was I supposed to avoid eye contact altogether and turn my back on them? Or was I getting confused with tactics I am meant to employ when trying to pull a man at a bar?
Then there were the little, far less scary people with small boxes on their laps – hamsters? Stick insects? (can you plaster a stick insect’s broken leg? Or do they just grow a new one?). And then there was me, attempting not to breath or move. Occasionally, an incredibly relaxed looking vet would come out and call for their next patient: “Splodge Walker?”, “Blobby Chatwin?” and “Lucky Smith?”. They would then disappear into a small room with a huge dog. I am full of admiration for anyone who can do that, let alone then attempt to examine them.
The vet removed her stitches and was pleased with her progress, but told me she would have to spend the next 6 weeks in a cage whilst her tendon recovers. Six weeks?!! In addition she’s on antibiotics and pain killers, which means that I will have to get her out of the cage twice a day, somehow get drugs down her throat and clean both her wound and the cage. Great. That’s all I need.
She then warned me that my cat might get depressed. I said, “OK fine”, when she told me that, but I was actually thinking, “What? Are you joking? A cat with depression? What about me? I AM DEPRESSED. I am about to be evicted from my house, I have nowhere else to live, I don’t have a husband or a boyfriend, it’s raining and I haven’t had sex for ages and if I have to cope with a depressed cat, who’s jaw has to be prised open in order for me to drop crushed up prozac into her mouth IT MIGHT JUST TIP ME OVER THE EDGE”.
“If you find yourself going through hell, keep going”. Churchill.
