Conversations about my cat

I switched my phone on, holding it by the window to catch the one bit of signal that gets through the steel doors at my parents’ house. The answerphone beeped, which is most unusual.

"If that’s the Kleenezee woman calling to arrange another delivery that she fails to keep I’ll bloody kill her," I told my Dad as I dialled in. Except it was two messages from the catsitter; the first from the previous day saying that El Mog had not peed for two days and that if he hadn’t peed the next morning she was going to whip him to the vet, the second saying he had peed but, really, this wasn’t good.

Heart rate raised by about double. A call from Spain to the vet, booking him in for the day after I flew back.

The vet looked El Mog over (following an incident with the cat carrier, when El Mog positioned himself over my shoulder, claws embedded in my back, yowling in my ear; yeah, you think you were stressed before, kitty?) and pronounced him a dumb ass but more or less fine. "I’m way too young to be one of those mad women who say ‘I couldn’t possibly leave Tibbles’," I said. "Oh," replied the vet, "do not pander to him, no way."

[Incidentally, to all those mad women – Tibbles and Sooty can’t wait for you to go away for a night. They’ve got their eye on your gin and the DVD player.]

On the phone with my Mum. "So, he just missed you then?" "It seems so. There are cat anti-depressants but the vet and I agree that’s a bit extreme…"

I held my head in my hands and looked at El Mog. He meyowled at me and rolled over on the rug. "What the fuck am I going to do about you?" I asked, but he recognised that the question was rhetorical and for once, held his peace.


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