The news of the day as seen from the perspective of a pensionable domestic moggy called Fluffy.

Monday, June 28, 2004

A pain in the arse

I've only just been able to come to terms with the devastating events of four weeks ago. But they demonstrate, all too clearly, the miserable and put-upon life of the domestic moggy.

I'd been having a bit of pain and difficulty on the ol' number two front for some days, when she got particularly agitated one day as I attempted to squeeze one out. Admittedly, I was moving from place to place in the living room and, frankly, I was squeezing so hard that the only thing come out was blood. I have to confess I was a trifle concerned on that front myself.

Anyhow, when he got in, it was decided that I must be rushed to the vets. This is a major drag for me, mainly because it means I have to go through the whole kidnap routine all over again. How would you like to be shoved into a plastic box and smuggled out of your home at all hours of the night?

Anyway, we get to the PDSA place and get buzzed in. It looked so proletarian. I'm used to private health care these days. I know what you're thinking. 'Fluffy, you've sold out, Fluffy, what happened to your principles, tra-la-la....' You get older, the prospects for the revolution dim, you want the finer things. Nuff said.

Now, this emergency mularkey ain't cheap - even on the NHS, as it were. So, Lover Boy was in tow cos he was going to have to shell out. Well, someone had to find a use for him. After the financial 'pleasantries' were sorted out, it was through to the exam room for the biological 'unpleasantries'.

I was pinned to the table by him, her, and a poshly spoken woman who insisted on patronising me about how things weren't going to hurt when clearly they were. You know you're in trouble when they snap on the latex glove. I gulped. Then she put a big blob of KY jelly on her little finger. At least it was her little finger. Small mercies. I looked at the ceiling. I gulped again.

And then it REALLY hurt. Right up me bottle and glass. Then there's lots of waggling about, which certainly smarted more than a little. Obviously, I'm as tough as old boots, so I'm trying to grimace my way through it. Eventually, she pops her finger out. Then she starts squeezing some sac or other under me arse, which produces an unhealthy amount of brown goo and I must admit to an involuntary wriggle or two.

I was glad that was over. OK, everyone, exam over, gimme a pill and let's all go home. But no, suddenly I've got a thermometer up my newly tenderised posterior. I was not a happy pussy! Now my stiff upper lip had disappeared under the pressure applied to my stiff little ring. Then, Posh Girl starts talking about cystitis and I'm thinking, well... a little bit of suffering may be worthwhile for a diagnosis, and suddenly I'm getting pinched at the scruff of me neck and big needles are being shoved into me!

That was it. They'd messed with this cat quite enough. BFFP was still trying to hold me down, but a quick swivel and I'd some serious clawed kung-fu shit on her. She recoiled, I bolted for the corner of the room. And then I looked back at them, my poor throbbing anus firmly guarded.


If only I could have said that. But I'm sure my evil Fluffystare painted the picture for them. And so I was packed back into my plastic box and driven home to nurse me swollen rear end. Bastards.