DT on a Ferry
Snugly ensconced in his pink cat carrier and unaware of various bits of luggage piled on top of him, our feline passenger had enjoyed a restful journey down to Portsmouth, unaware of road closures and our navigational travails. Such worries are for humans - DT tended to confine his day to day concerns to eating, defecating and chasing any moving object smaller than himself.
We'd been a little worried about transporting him from Kent to the Island; the car journey was only a couple of hours, but then there was the hassle of the ferry. I can’t vouch for ferries’ feelings towards cats, but suspected some antipathy the other way round. Eventually If called the vet to discuss the matter. We had a nice chat and he gave me some advice, after which I fainted because he hadn’t asked me for money.
In the normal course of events, as soon as the vet sets eyes on your beloved creature, at least one unnecessary treatment is suggested to you; it is implied that if you don’t agree, you are an animal abuser of the worst sort. (Not that animal abusers should be categorised into best ones and worst ones; "the award for best animal abuser goes to….." has a hollow ring to it!)
“I really think she’d benefit from anal scrubbing. The cat, not your wife”, the vet unnecessarily clarifies, with an apologetic look at Mrs. Griffiths. “It would greatly increase her quality of life. It’s only £1500 a session.”
“Is she insured for it?", you naively ask.
“No, I’m afraid anal scrubbing is one of the exemptions. Like absolutely everything else.” Here the vet looks the other way to suppress a chortle.
“Can’t she just borrow my Anusol cream?”
They then get someone else - the nurse or receptionist or a passing vagrant - to do the anal scrubbing. They can’t do it because they’re too busy rubbing their hands with glee and sniggering.
At the end of the day they drive home in their large cars to their large houses, chuckling softly to themselves. (To be clear, they've stopped rubbing their hands with glee at this point; both veterinary hands are on safely the steering wheel.)
The vet had said not to tranquilise him. Normally DT disagrees with every opinion the vet holds about him and his health (judging from his body language and aversion to the evil building where the vet operates), but he would probably have acquiesced with the white-coated enemy if anyone had bothered to ask him. Like most of us, a large needle being inserted up his ‘jacksie’ was not high on his ‘to do’ list!
I'd recommend taking a cat on a ferry; on the whole you'll be well entertained. DT, travelling between Portsmouth and Ryde, underwent different emotions of which the most striking was simply being nonplussed. Cats, as we know, find it irksome not to be in control, and, helpless in his carrier, DT's impotence was complete. From the outset, he sensed he was near water and vociferously made known that he was sceptical of the turn events were taking. When the ferry chugged into life he looked on with disapproval. When a couple of dogs made know their presence, he shifted his mood to one of high alert, desperate to assert his master race status. Thereafter he was, as I say, nonplussed, which eventually morphed into an affected nonchalance. All these emotions were punctuated, of course, by an utterly unnecessary washing of his silky, tabby fur.
On arrival at his new home, DT's curiosity knew no restraint. Like an estate agent with ADHD leading a confused couple round a bijou property in the Home Counties, he bounded up and down all three storeys, looking into this corner and that corner, inspecting under this bed and that bed. It was wearing just watching him.
The plan had been to keep him in the house for a few days, which is the accepted practice when you move a feline. DT knows what he's doing, however, and Eve let him out the next day. Sure enough an hour later he sauntered in like a cowboy strolling into a bar, recounting us with tales of the friends he'd made and the fights he'd had.
At the time of writing he's been round Ventnor a couple of times, and exhausted from all his exploring has settled down for a nice snooze halfway up the stair
In the normal course of events, as soon as the vet sets eyes on your beloved creature, at least one unnecessary treatment is suggested to you; it is implied that if you don’t agree, you are an animal abuser of the worst sort. (Not that animal abusers should be categorised into best ones and worst ones; "the award for best animal abuser goes to….." has a hollow ring to it!)
“I really think she’d benefit from anal scrubbing. The cat, not your wife”, the vet unnecessarily clarifies, with an apologetic look at Mrs. Griffiths. “It would greatly increase her quality of life. It’s only £1500 a session.”
“Is she insured for it?", you naively ask.
“No, I’m afraid anal scrubbing is one of the exemptions. Like absolutely everything else.” Here the vet looks the other way to suppress a chortle.
“Can’t she just borrow my Anusol cream?”
They then get someone else - the nurse or receptionist or a passing vagrant - to do the anal scrubbing. They can’t do it because they’re too busy rubbing their hands with glee and sniggering.
At the end of the day they drive home in their large cars to their large houses, chuckling softly to themselves. (To be clear, they've stopped rubbing their hands with glee at this point; both veterinary hands are on safely the steering wheel.)
The vet had said not to tranquilise him. Normally DT disagrees with every opinion the vet holds about him and his health (judging from his body language and aversion to the evil building where the vet operates), but he would probably have acquiesced with the white-coated enemy if anyone had bothered to ask him. Like most of us, a large needle being inserted up his ‘jacksie’ was not high on his ‘to do’ list!
I'd recommend taking a cat on a ferry; on the whole you'll be well entertained. DT, travelling between Portsmouth and Ryde, underwent different emotions of which the most striking was simply being nonplussed. Cats, as we know, find it irksome not to be in control, and, helpless in his carrier, DT's impotence was complete. From the outset, he sensed he was near water and vociferously made known that he was sceptical of the turn events were taking. When the ferry chugged into life he looked on with disapproval. When a couple of dogs made know their presence, he shifted his mood to one of high alert, desperate to assert his master race status. Thereafter he was, as I say, nonplussed, which eventually morphed into an affected nonchalance. All these emotions were punctuated, of course, by an utterly unnecessary washing of his silky, tabby fur.
On arrival at his new home, DT's curiosity knew no restraint. Like an estate agent with ADHD leading a confused couple round a bijou property in the Home Counties, he bounded up and down all three storeys, looking into this corner and that corner, inspecting under this bed and that bed. It was wearing just watching him.
The plan had been to keep him in the house for a few days, which is the accepted practice when you move a feline. DT knows what he's doing, however, and Eve let him out the next day. Sure enough an hour later he sauntered in like a cowboy strolling into a bar, recounting us with tales of the friends he'd made and the fights he'd had.
At the time of writing he's been round Ventnor a couple of times, and exhausted from all his exploring has settled down for a nice snooze halfway up the stair
Comments
Post a Comment