Reality reared its head today.
I had to set an alarm and get up early. Naturally this meant that I was still awake at 1.45 this morning, trying to find a comfortable spot in a bed that had inexplicably turned from a palace of delights to a stony field of knobbly bits. Knobbly bits that knew just where to position themselves so that I was in the maximum amount of discomfort. Even more naturally, the best sleep I had was in the five minutes prior to having to get up.
I blame the kittens for this broken slumber.
I had to take Ronnie P and Anorak to the V E T today to have their man danglers taken off. Impressively I managed to get them both into the upturned cat basket in very short order. I put this down to the fact that they were weak with hunger, not having had anything since 8.00 p.m. on New Year’s Day (I know this is less than 24 hours ago but they are dustbins). Also they are stupid.
I am very grateful for this stupidity some of the time.
If it had been Tilly taking them, she’d have asked for the mortal remains to make earrings out of. As it was me, I bid them farewell and sped away to do very Mondayish chores and distinctly didn’t ask for them when I went to pick them up this afternoon. As predicted, Tilly did ask me about this when she got home from work. I am of the opinion that she can collect as many cat bollocks as she likes when she moves into her own home, but my home has enough bollocks in it already. Thank you. Kind regards.
The lady who discharged the beasts into my care gave me a very solemn talking to and a long list of instructions. Apparently there are no stitches for male cats to pick out. I thought this was a good thing until she told me they just have open wounds, and I needed to make sure that they don’t aggravate the wound site too much by fighting like demons or vigorously washing each other or themselves. She gave me another long list of unpleasant wound related things to look for. She also gave me strict instructions to give them small amounts of invalid food and to make them rest. I have to take them back on Friday for a check up.
On leaving, she thrust an encyclopaedic care package consisting largely of notes typed in bold with exclamation marks at me. I showed them to the kittens as we all sat rather forlornly in the traffic on the way home. They told me they couldn’t read.
The youth of today.
When we got home I poured them a small amount of snacks and went and hid all of Derek’s food on high shelves underneath lids. Within twenty minutes of being at home they had scaled the high shelves, knocked off the lids and were feasting like kings.
Since then I have removed all the cat food completely, so they have moved on to some Christmas chocolate, a savaged bag of mini marshmallows and a bit of stair carpet. I don’t know if you ever read Simon and the Witch when you were a child, but her cat, George, likes to eat furniture when she goes out and leaves him. I think Ronnie P and Anorak might be distant descendants of George. It transpires that invalid food is rubbish and only for uter wets and wedes. Chiz.
They have also had a massive scrap across the kitchen table, hanging off several dining chairs and biffing each other across the landing. I broke this up at least twice with exhortations to be gentle and speak softly to your little child and beat him when he sneezes, but they were not having any of it and just legged it out of earshot and continued to pummel each other.
Anorak loves his interesting wound site, and has washed it vigorously on several occasions. This apparently is absolutely not allowed. I found out however that when he was recovering at the V E T’s he was already doing this and had destroyed two cones of shame already, so I am very glad that I did not succumb to the lady’s offer to purchase my own cone of shame. Although if it had been for me, that would have been more fitting, given what an absolute hash I have made of cat rehabilitation.