I have had a day of livestock-related tasks.
This morning I clipped all of the dogs – you will remember there are three of them at the moment – and then bathed them.
Tonka, who is Number One Daughter’s dog, does not like being clipped, and cried so tragically that I thought perhaps the clippers might have become inexplicably hot, but they had not, he is just a weed. He was very pleased when it was done, and he had been scrubbed clean. Afterwards he stretched out blissfully in the sunshine in an ecstasy of tail-thumping contentment.
Roger Poopy fought for a few moments and then surrendered so thoroughly that for a moment I began to suspect that he might be dead. He lay limply on the table, his eyes closed, allowing me to lift his paws and trim between his toes without even a hint of protest, until I became mildly alarmed and poked him in the ear to check.
You will be pleased to learn that he was not dead.
Rosie growled and fought passionately, especially when I tried to do the underneath parts. She is not a dog who appreciates being turned upside down. She glared at me whilst I washed her down afterwards, and then went to sleep in the cat litter tray, just to show me that it was her right to be revolting if she wished to be.
After all of that, and the clearing up, which I can tell you took absolutely ages, I took the cat to the vet. Number One Daughter has been otherwise occupied in jumping on and off boxes and lifting heavy things, and has not had time to get it either microchipped or vaccinated, so I agreed that I would oblige.
I dropped Oliver off at work, and then took the cat, who was trying, tiresomely, to help me steer, to the vet.
The receptionist looked horrified when I brought it in, and ran around clucking and insisting that cats were supposed to be in cages. I said that it did not need to be in a cage, but she insisted that it was Surgery Rules, and at that point the cat proved her point by spotting a poodle on the other side of the waiting room, and trying to launch itself off my neck. I recaptured it before it actually leaped, but to no avail, the receptionist was determined, and so it was installed in a Cat Jail.
I did not mind this, since it meant I could read my book in relative peace, but the cat was furious. It hurled itself at the sides of the cage, yowling and shrieking until everybody started to stare at it. I imagine this is cat-language for Get Me Out Of This Cage, You Rotters.
The receptionist said that the poor little thing was frightened and put a blanket over the cage, so that, she explained, it could hide in peace. This led to a renewed onslaught of cat-curses and so much cage-bashing that it rattled on the floor.
I was almost relieved when we were called into the surgery, some twenty minutes later, although I did not exactly cover myself in glory when the vet asked me its name and I had to confess that I had forgotten, and had to look it up on my mobile phone.
After that you can imagine how calm and contented it was when it was given two injections in its neck.
I dumped the cage on the reception desk and carted it back out to the car, where as soon as it was certain that we were alone, it bit me.
I did not exactly blame it.
I put it down amongst the concerned dogs when we got home, and with a flurry of furious spitting, it hurtled off upstairs and I have not seen it since. I do not know what it is doing, sulking in Oliver’s bed, probably.
I expect it will have set off back home, and is by now on its Incredible Journey back to Number One Daughter’s house with its cat food tied in a little knotted hankie on a stick.
It could probably stop by London and see if they are short of a Lord Mayor whilst it is on its way past.
I just liked the idea of the title.
