Olivier et le Chat

Chapter 13: Olivier et le Chat

It came to pass that our Marxist cat, Demetrius Trotsky Griffiths, needed to be vaccinated. There’s a sentence! Cats should be vaccinated every year, but in upending our lives we’d fallen behind schedule and he was way past his vaccination date. Typically, he’d neglected to tell us, and we only realised when the cattery who'd agreed to take him in while we visited the Mainland in the Easter holidays, asked for proof. As undoubtedly skilled as he is at balancing, jumping and climbing up vertical objects (he’s the best in the family, actually), DT can’t feed himself and open doors (our Albert Street house didn’t have a catflap) so housing him with some fellow felines was the only option.

The owners of the cattery we sourced in Wroxall assured us that their tin opener was in top condition and their door opening skills were second to none. However they wouldn’t take him unless he was vaccinated. I’m a pretty adept at blagging and thought about arguing that the vaccine certificate was ‘in storage’, but the lady I spoke to had a manner about her which suggested she would see through this tactic. I had a Headmistress like that once.

Renting a storage unit 100 miles away can be useful if you can’t find something and need to explain why.

“Oh I’m sorry, it’s in storage,” I’d say, with a disappointed look on my face, whenever we were asked for something we should have had but didn’t - lesson plans, some jewellery of my Mum’s I was meant to pass on to my nieces, some certificate or other - anything we should have had but didn’t, was ‘in storage’.

Like dentists, vets can be hard to find on the Island. A month or so earlier we’d popped into a small vets in Shanklin - Island Veterinary Clinic - to enquire whether they had room on their books for a feline of left wing persuasion. Olivier, a kind, lovely Frenchman, informed us that he didn’t discriminate between animals on a political basis, but in any case he didn’t have any space in his pet client list. The French like their strikes and marches, and I’d thought perhaps Olivier might have co-opted DT into a protest concerning Custom Officer’s pay or something. However he did say he’d treat him in an emergency - the vet’s version of the hippocratic oath, I presume - and when we called him a few weeks later, he agreed to administer the vaccine.

Getting a cat into a cat carrier can be an exasperating undertaking, generally causing amusement to those watching, but not to those engaged in the activity. It involves some wrestling, lots of swearing and a supply of plasters and Savlon. Probably like most cats, DT has a sixth sense for these things and as soon as ‘cat carrier’ is mentioned, he scuttles away and hides underneath a double bed. No amount of treats will encourage him to emerge, so I have to crawl under the bed and yank him out by his tail.

Often this is when the first plaster is needed.

“We should get his claws cut, Eve.”

“No - that’s cruel - they need their claws.”

“But look at me - I look as though I’ve been mauled by a shark!”

The cat carrier is then placed on one end and held firmly by Ewan, who has the stomach for these things. Freya has generally retreated to safer pastures - her normal MO when help is required. DT is tipped into the carrier, but wriggles free at the last minute, and once again finds solace underneath the same double bed. Eventually, but not before the sitting room has begun to resemble a World War I hospital ward, DT is safely and unhappily forced into his pink cat carrier.

As we were waiting for Olivier to finish treating his previous patient - an especially loud, yapping dog who seemed oblivious to Olivier’s soothing Frankish tones - a smell began to emerge from the cat carrier.

“Fran - I think he’s crapped himself!”

“Who?”

“Well not the vet, obviously. Him”. She jerked a thumb in DT’s direction.

We’d transported DT on ferries to Kent and back on a couple of occasions in which there’d been no signs of any excretions, liquid or solid - but in the short journey from Ventnor he’d decided he couldn’t wait.

The smell was overpowering and awful, and I was worried Olivier would refuse to proceed. Nothing could have been further from the truth; he seemed to positively embrace the feline faeces.

“Non - is a normal everyday thing for me?” he explained in a light French accent. “This ‘appens all the time. No problem”. With supreme efficiency, he whipped out a succession of cleaning materials and plastic bags and gloves, and before you could say “chat”, we had a clean cat carrier and a clean cat.

“You should put the cat carrier in the shower - there are some bits I couldn’t get to near the grill.” Olivier advised

I had visions of Eve naked in the shower with the cat carrier, showering bits of shit out that Olivier couldn’t get to. In fact I washed it in the bath and then ran the bath for Ewan. I didn’t tell Ewan this - he’s quite OCD about this kind of thing. He won’t find out as he certainly won’t bother to read his father’s book.

It was obvious that Olivier adored animals. This was a relief, as the French do have a reputation for eating them. As he was checking DT over and administering the vaccine, I began to prattle on to him about this and that. I’m a capable if irritating prattler, but Olivier put up with my annoying conversation with good humour.

“Olivier, I’ve heard that every English word that ends in ‘ion’ is the same in French with two exceptions. Explanation, which is explication, and vacation, which is vacance.” (I supplied the French in case he wasn’t sure.) Does that mean that vaccination is vaccin-a-tion?”

“Ah yes, we say ‘vacances’, but you know this doesn’t just mean the holidays. It can also be used for a period of time or a free position.”

“Ah, that explains ‘vacancy’!” I said with delight.

“Exactement,” he replied, with a twinkle in his eye. “And yes, vaccination is the same.”

I love etymology and found this more interesting than anyone else in the environs! We had a further chat about DT’s second name, with Olivier curious - mystified even - as to why we’d named him after Leon Trotsky. We explained that each child had given DT one of his names, with Freya choosing Demetrius because she was studying A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the time. Ewan, as you’ll know if you’ve been paying attention, has political leanings in the Trotsky area.

So that was fine - until we got home, and DT quite suddenly became more lethargic than Freya when she’s asked to do her share of the housework. (If you can suddenly become lethargic). Over the next few hours his interest in life and his surroundings decreased bit by bit. Nothing would interest him - he even declined his two favourite foods - stilton cheese and cookie dough ice cream - and was indifferent when I read a draft of this book to him. We called Olivier who said he didn’t like coincidences, and to bring him in the next day if he hadn’t improved. Obviously he’d had some sort of reaction to the vaccine, but it was all a bit strange.

The following day, we were at work, so DT was overseen by Ewan. Ewan reported that he was, if anything, worse; his tongue was sticking out and red raw, and he was dribbling which made him smell (DT, not Ewan).

So we brought him back to Olivier. This time it was easier to get him into the car carrier, and he didn’t crap in Olivier’s waiting room.

Olivier tenderly fondled him. That sounds weird, but you know what I mean. He made a series of non-commital noises which might have been in French or English (Olivier, not DT) and eventually peered at us over his glasses.

“ ‘e ‘as ‘erpes,” he pronounced, solemnly.

“Sorry?”

“‘erpes. The virus.”

Poor old DT had something called a herpesvirus infection, and had been carrying it for goodness knows how long. Ironically, the vaccine had aroused the dormant virus and made him ill. Olivier gave him some antibiotics and then gave us a bit more detail.

“Demetrius Trotsky will be ok in a few days,” he said, enjoying our reaction to his using DT’s full name. “ But unfortunately ‘e’ll carry the ‘erpes virus all his life - so can never be vaccinated. You’re very unusual, my friendl” he continued, addressing DT with affection. “I’ve never seen this before. It’s very rare.”

“Does this mean ‘e - I mean he - can never go into a cattery,” Eve asked, thinking of herself as usual. (Ok that was my first thought as well.)

“Not unless you don’t tell them, and they tend to ask for proof,” he replied.

We thanked Olivier profusely and left. The health implications aren’t too serious and the condition can be managed fairly easily; most cats can lead healthy lives whilst carrying the virus. However the fact that he could never be put in a cattery was something of a blow. Poor old DT. But also, poor old us!