Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Not the Vet again!

You know I'm never one to complain, but I had a nasty experience this week. That black creature attacked me again! Luckily Dad stepped in, just as Squeaky had me trapped in his arms, and one shout from Dad was enough to make him let go, at which I sped off into the woods.

Mum came looking for me, but I was too scared to tell her where I was, and I just stayed out of the way until I was getting so wet and miserable I answered her call. She got me out of the middle of a gorse bush and carried me home, and I must say that this sort of situation really makes you appreciate your humans. They may be fat-headed, they may provoke needless confrontations over whose sofa it is (as happened the previous evening), they may refuse you a third helping of your favourite food - but when you're in trouble, they're there for you.

When I got in it was a couple of hours after being attacked, and I was happy to find they'd broken out a tin of Sheba for me, to celebrate my home-coming. Then it was back to the sofa (with no complaints from Mum this time). Oh, and she bathed the scratch on my nose and dried me off, and I felt a lot better. Where would we be without our humans, kittens? Remember the value of a good human - or even better, a pair of good humans, because then there's always one around to look after you, and if one gives you a meal, you can sometimes fool the other one into feeding you immediately afterwards. But I digress.

The next day I wasn't feeling quite so well, and Mum became concerned - and we all know where that leads. Yup, The Vet. For once in her life, Mum was early, but as the vet was late that meant that I had to sit in my 'cat carrier' (hah!) in the waiting room being stared at by slack-jawed gawpers and even - the cheek of it - having one stick his pudgy finger through the bars at me and another hold up his stupid cat at me, as if I was interested. What is wrong with some humans? (Note to kittens: this shows the importance of getting a pair of humans who know how to behave.)

So anyway, I finally get to see the vet. I'm very well-mannered, letting her look in my mouth, etc, etc, and I listen politely while she and Mum discuss my case. "Has she eaten anything?" asks the vet in a concerned way. At this, I expect to hear Mum say, "Oh doctor, we were so weepingly grateful when she managed to swallow a few soft morsels!", instead of which I heard what I can only describe as a hollow laugh followed by the words, "Oh yes, it takes a lot to stop her eating!". The vet looked surprised, which Mum says shows that most cats couldn't eat after a trauma, but I think she was stunned to hear such an insult from my so-called loved one.

Well, after a bit more chitchat, the stethoscope and a jab in the back of the neck (though thankfully no thermometer you-know-where), I was released. I improvised a winsome bit of business by trying to scale the shelves next to the black table, which proved a winner with both Mum and the vet, and then it was back into the carrier and out to reception again.

Note from 'Mum': Squeaky is someone else's cat who keeps coming into the garden. He's actually a lovely cat to humans, but he chases and fights other cats and won't stop doing it. What upsets me is that someone, somewhere seems to have given him a kick recently: he used to be perfectly happy but now he flinches when I walk past him, and the vet thought that was a sign of violence, too. Poor little guy. But because he's so violent towards Daisy, we are shooing him out of the garden as soon as we see him, and we just hope he gets the message and stays away.

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