The Reluctant Traveller

The correspondent had a wonderful idea yesterday – to pin a picture of the lovely Helena up so that any time Bussie has to go the vet (which let’s hope won’t be for a long, long time) he will go like a shot.

I now need to find the equivalent for Mollie who changes from a loveable bouncy terrier into a growling, snarling bundle of teeth and claws when faced with the vet.

I’m taking her to see Ruth, a wonderful vet nurse, every other week to try and get her used to the surgery and Mollie thinks this is wonderful. She adores Ruth who has wide honey eyes, long fair hair and a gorgeous open personality. (She also has a pocket full of treats.)

You can’t not love Ruth. She’s in her early twenties, married with a tiny baby and has a rescue greyhound and two Irish terriers, one of which is bonkers, despite her careful training. I haven’t met the husband but I know he works shifts.

Anyway, all I need do is find a male vet that Mollie can fall in love with, and my problems will be solved.

I’m off now to spend the weekend with a girlfriend in Devon. I didn’t sleep much last night, my mind on red alert from 2.30 – will Bussie eat today? Will he be all right? Will Mollie get a decent enough walk? And so on. I can see I’ll be ringing for hourly updates.

But it will be lovely to see Av again. We’re going walking and will sort the world out, eat in a pub and spend the night with my mum. I’m leaving Himself in charge of The Invalid and Mollie on the basis that a) I shouldn’t deprive him of both women in his life at once and b) he’ll have to walk Moll twice a day in my absence.

How much liquid refreshment is poured down his neck in the process is another matter.

Noises

Lying in bed this morning, I listened to early morning sounds and was struck by how many there were. Like most of us, I suspect, I don’t often sit and just Listen. So this is what I heard.

Someone upstairs washing; the creak of water running through the pipes, the splash of water on face. The gurgle of water down the plug, tumbling down and hitting the drain with a sloshy swirl.

A car engine revving up, driving off. A hoot and screech of tyres as it stopped, missing something (I hoped).

The breathy gasps of an early morning orgasm. (A holiday maker upstairs – I know the layout of all the flats along here!)

The rattle of the catflap as Mollie barged back inside, terrified of missing something. The patter of paws on carpet as she hurried down the corridor. Silence, then a dignified belch from her breakfast.

Now, there’s just the quiet hum of my computer which is finally WORKING!!!

What can you hear?

Support

No, no news but we’re trying to be positive. Perhaps he is lying smugly on someone’s bed, being fed tuna on a silver spoon. (In which case, why not come home?) Perhaps he couldn’t wriggle away because of his bad leg. Perhaps he’s locked in someone’s garage. You can go mad speculating, so I try not to.

At least some decent weather helps; Bussie will be warm and dry, wherever he is. As Breadbox said, it’s the not knowing that’s so frustrating. You can’t do anything if you don’t know what’s happened, can’t move forwards. I can only hope that my Bussie is safe, and that he’ll come home soon. Whoever can tell what a cat’s thinking?

But thank you so much for all your support. Not just from people I ‘know’, but from those I have never met before. When I read Lesley’s second comment just now I felt blessed that so many people have taken the trouble to say they care. It means more than I can say and brings back faith that despite what happens, often unaccountably, there is a brighter side to life.

I’m sorry I’m not able to thank you all owing to a very wobbly Broadband connection. I spent nearly two hours on the phone to some BT fellow whose grasp of the English language wasn’t too good and spoke very quietly, so I kept shouting, ‘SORRY, COULD YOU SPEAK UP?’ down the phone. He failed to solve the problem, but apparently the problems is caused by BT upgrading our Broadband connection. No, it doesn’t make any sense to me, either.

So for the next week I could be having a wobbly Broadband connection which means I may not be able to thank you all personally, and visit your blogs. Bear with me. I will keep you posted – it just takes hours to add a comment on my own blog, let alone anyone else’s.

(While I don’t want to wish my life away, I can’t help thinking I’ll almost be glad when this week’s over.)

On a brighter note, I see from the Western Morning News yesterday that Bilbo, a Newfoundland accompanying his lifeguard owner at Sennen Cove, managed to save a Dutch tourist’s life. Weighing 12 stone, Bilbo tried to stop Lein Snippe from entering the water. When that didn’t work, he swam out so that she could see how hard it was for him to get back.

‘It was incredible,’ said Lein. ‘It was almost like he was talking to me.’

I was hoping to end with a cheerful cat story, but I can’t quite see a cat diving into the surf. On the other hand, I’d never be surprised by a cat’s capabilities. And Bussie, if nothing else is a prima donna. He loves the limelight. So come home soon, Bussie. You’re famous now.

Missing

Bussie went missing on Tuesday evening, having injured his back leg. He came down and told us about it, of course, yowling vociferously. We had a good look at it, and it didn’t look broken – just sprained. But he was obviously in pain, poor thing, and curled up on the bunks in the hall (his favourite place) and had his tea brought to him. I had to go out to a meeting later but Pip kept checking him - and suddenly he was gone.

He hasn’t been seen since, and this isn’t a wandering cat, but a spoilt only son. He always comes home for meals, adores his creature comforts.

Himself says, ‘He’ll be back in the morning/evening/lunchtime,’ repeating it like a mantra. I'm silent, feeling sick, my imagination working overtime.

Meanwhile we patrol the streets like ghosts, calling and calling him, dropping leaflets into neighbouring houses as it got dark last night. I've rung the local radio station, been to the vets, told all our friends nearby. We come home and look at the bunks, accusingly empty. His bowl of biscuits, untouched.

What really worries me is that he’s in pain and alone - I can’t bear to think of any animal, particularly my Bussie, suffering. Where on earth is he?