Had to take one of our cats to the vets today - she belongs to our youngest daughter and is called Tango. We have several other names for this cat, ranging from fluffball to 'poo-pants' - due to her recent cold weather habit, of going upstairs to find a bed to poo on - quite disgusting, and quite inexplicable behaviour as far as I'm concerned. As far as Henry is concerned, the cat has used up 8 and a half of its lives already, and taking it to the vet is therefore pretty academic.
I thought Tango had broken her leg, and dutifully prepared a tearful little girl for the worst news. How much emotional investment do we place in our pets, and how much of a catalyst (pun unintended) are they in our family relationships? As I'm driving to the vets with the cat miaowing next to me, I remember the day we all went to see her as a kitten, the day we brought her home, curled up and tiny in my daughter's arms, and how many special times have been shared between the two of them since. Everything vivid and sharp in my mind. I feel like I've been on an emotional journey myself by the time we get there.
The outcome of the vet visit, is a diagnosis of a very nasty bite to the leg, injections, antibiotics - and a bill for £40.00. So 'poo-pants' returns, triumphant in her remaining half-life, relishing the extra attentions that any convalescing feline deserves. I wonder how long until she becomes 'that bloody cat' again?
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