Thursday, 27 December 2007
A Feline Blog
This year Bussie decided to take over the box that the Christmas tree was stored in. As you can see, Mollie is wondering what the hell is going on…
Last year it was a lost girl on the Lizard who we rescued. She was lost, pissed and had broken up with her husband. Or so she said.
This year it was a cat hiding in the hedge at the end of our street. A passing shopper told us about it saying he’d noticed the cat there for several days and was worried; it was obviously ill.
We hurried along to look at it and noticed a swollen face: an abscess probably. As cats often crawl away when they’re ill, we said we’d keep an eye on it and bring it food.
Then we got back and tried to ring the RSPCA who were constantly engaged. I did think of the vet but didn’t really want to have to pay the vet’s bills as it wasn’t our cat. Then later, just before I was going to take mum to the crib service, I thought, well I’ll ring them and see what they suggest.
This was 2.30 on Christmas Eve. I rang the vet and explained that it was a stray (we’d tried other houses in the street and it didn’t belong to anyone) and the vet nurse who answered the phone said, ‘Oh that’s OK. Can you bring it in? We’ll treat him as a stray.’
So we managed to bundle him into a catbox and took him up to the vet – which is also an animal hospital. The poor fellow yowled a lot on the way there, but they took him in and I know he’ll be well looked after there.
So you see, there really is – or was – some Christmas spirit after all.
And on a similarly feline note, as I walked into town the other day I passed a fellow with terrible scratch marks all over his face.
Oh yeah, I thought. Been in a fight, eh? One too many in the pub? Too much festive spirit? Or wife/girlfriend pissed off – she should cut her nails, mate. Vicious, that.
As I drew nearer, a friend of his approached him and asked him how he’d got his scars. I slowed down to listen (as you do, it’s research, you understand, of a literary nature).
‘These?’ said the bloke, wincing as he brushed his face. ‘It was the cat.’
So there you go – how wrong can you be?