Friday, 20 January 2012
You know that feeling, that dreadful feeling like when you're in a lift which goes up really quickly and leaves your stomach behind ? That's how I felt on Saturday. Allow me to explain.
I had not long arrived back with several primed princesses from the Irn Bru Carnival; by primed I mean that they had overloaded on candy floss and sugary drinks and it was with a great sense of relief that I handed them over ( frothing at the mouth and cross eyed ) to their ( um, grateful ? ) parents. Job done, and several "sleepovers" owed to me, result.
There was no sign of boy cat, highly unusual in that ordinarily when the car pulls up I'm met with the meow concerto in A minor, i.e. "feed me now woman and some hugs wouldn't go amiss either". MIA, a huge worry.
Eventually and after much calling and whistling, he arrived at the back door. Usually he'd sprint a la Sebastian Coe for his food bowl, but he hung his head and wasn't even headbutting my leg for cuddles. Eventually he arrived at my feet, passed some blood from you know, there, and keeled over, hence my stomach crashing to the floor. I called the 24 hour vet, who told me to bring him straight in, we were there in eight minutes. It would seem that my boy had a severe blow to the abdomen, either caused by a car, or .. ( wait for it ) a boot from a ned.
The reason the vet mentioned a boot from a ned is that we are all aware that there are people out there who just do not like cats, but therein lies the irony. He is such a beautiful boy that it has been suggested to me that he would be an ideal candidate to bring around to retirement homes to cheer the inhabitants because he is a lap whore, any warm lap accompanied by cuddles will do, he's really not fussy. Very many people who "don't like cats" have met him and fallen in love with him, that's just his nature.
So, for the life of me, I fail to understand why anyone would hit a cat in their car and keep going and worse, why ANYONE would kick him. I just don't get it.
On Saturday night I was told that he was up to his furry ears in painkillers and that I hadn't to worry, but by Sunday that had changed. He had a perforated bladder, if it was a small tear it could be repaired there and then at the surgery, if it was really badly torn, he would need to go to a specialist veterinary hospital in Glasgow on Monday morning and there was no guarantee he'd pull through. On that basis, I asked if I could see him, and flew down to the vets. We had a cuddle and a kiss and I cried until I thought my eyes were going to shrivel up. Later that night came the phone call to tell me he was deteriorating and they couldn't wait for Glasgow, they had to operate there and then.
I don't think this blog is the appropriate place to discuss my faith, suffice to say I have a very strong faith and regularly have animated discussions with the powers that be.
"I don't ask for much, I really don't, but please let him pull through".
Several Hail Mary's later and he was in recovery and doing well, I cried my lamps out again but this time from relief. In the interim, I had to cancel my Carlisle tour, sorry guys but my children come first - furry and actual. You know, outside my Domme persona, I'm not a violent person, I'm really not, but I would dearly love five minutes alone with whoever hurt my boy and just left him there.
Finally, yesterday we got him home. He is skin and bone and very clingy but the main thing is he's OK. I sat down last night with a black and white stole in the form of boy cat to watch TV when the cry went up -
"MUM, FATTY HAS A WET TAIL".
Oh, dear God. This was a reference to "Fatima", our hamster - and apparently if her tail is a mess of um ... "stuff", it means big trouble and perhaps a full military honours funeral.
So back down to the vets we went, ( you really couldn't make this up ). The vet felt so sorry for me having paid £150 for an out of hours consultation fee for boy cat that she only charged me £35 to see Fatty. She's OK, she has an infection and is on anti-biotics, huge fun is to be had in administering that, via a syringe down the throat of a terrified small animal.
"GODAMMIT, I'M DOING THIS FOR YOUR OWN GOOD."
The good news is that at least the feckin' snake is OK, he observed the circus with a wry grin whilst digesting his small white mouse, ( *boak* - not fed by me, I hasten to add ).
So, on Monday I'm off to Perth and I really hope that in the interim The Waltons behave themselves. I mean I've never asked for perfection but Jaysus, give me a break.
There are lots more serious things for discussion which I will do over the next couple of days, in the comfort of a hotel room and away from syringes and furry creatures, so, I will catch up with you from Perth.