Most days I am woken by an erect tail rubbing my toes. I always surprised to see it poking up at the end of the bed. Some people say I’m a lucky man. I’m not so sure: I don’t always want my cat stroking me with his fluffy appendages. Especially first thing in the morning.
This morning, he didn’t. Although he meowed, there was no rubbing. There was no stroking. There was no proud greeting. He was limp. Droopy, floppy, broken. Now, that’s got to be upsetting for any male. Even more so for one who’s already has his balls chopped off. He looked disconsolate.
“Hey, Boy, what’s up?” I asked.
He looked back with a level of disdain only cats can muster.
His tail was doing some very odd things. It had adopted the shape of an ‘n’ for a start. Now, I’m not a veterinary expert, but I suspect this is not a normal and healthy exploration of new body poses by an avant-garde feline. I’d even go as far as to say something might be wrong.
Of course, I should have known better than to try to stroke it better. It really, really didn’t make anything better at all. Nothing at all. Not one thing. In fact, it’s the closest I’ve ever come to petting an atom bomb. If scientists could harness the violence that erupted in the milliseconds after my fateful words “Come on, Boy, let’s have a little look at it” they’d solve the global energy crisis overnight.
Even for a veteran like me, used to my psychopathic cat exploding at the slightest provocation, such as breathing, this was quite startling. T and I retreated behind the duvet as its outer covering is torn to shreds.
“I think he might be hurt.” I announced after some consideration. Such insight, such brilliance - sometimes I scare myself.
‘I think we should go to the vet.’ She responded, ‘And by the way, you’re bleeding over my clean sheets.’
T had clearly lost her mind in the blind fury of the situation. The vet? Take our cat. To the vet. Our cat. The vet. Our cat. She had gone bananas. We had to have a new kitchen the last time we tried to take our cat out of the house in his carrier and the neighbours moved to Stockport. Surely she wasn’t serious.
“Couldn’t we do something else?”
‘Like what?’
“Erm, put a splint on it.”
‘You think he’ll let you? You want to try?’
I looked at the bloody stumps where a great pianist’s fingers once were. She had a point.
“Couldn’t we just sell the house to a vet? Wouldn’t that be easier?”
T gave me a look that appeared surprisingly cat-like.
“All right” I said meaning the exact opposite but recognising a battle lost.
I fetched my welding gloves and put them on over the ones I wear for gardening and the leather ones I’m supposed to drive in.
‘My God!’ said the vet half an hour later, ‘Have you had an accident? Sit down, sit down; I’ll call an ambulance.’
“No, no. Please don’t bother. We’ve brought our cat.”
He looked at the vision of peace and contentment sat quietly in the carrier.
‘This little puddy tat?’
He looked at my bloody face and back to the cat without making any connection whatsoever. I knew that this was going to be messy. Messy in the same way the Charge of the Light Brigade could be described as a tad messy.
‘Right. Well, we’ll have a look at him then.’
“What, on your own? I don’t think that’s wise.”
‘It’s all right we do this sort of thing all the time.’
“Still, I think it’s worth taking some precautions.”
‘Don’t be silly. Leave him in our capable hands.’
T went and locked herself in the car outside.
Unlocking the cage had quite a dramatic effect. It was not unlike switching on a circular saw with whiskers. I felt quite sorry for this young man, fleeing in blind terror from this maniac of an animal. I held the door open as he escaped the treatment room. He slammed it shut behind us and slumped panting against it.
‘I think we’ll need to sedate him.’ He gasped, ‘I’ll get the tranquiliser gun.’
“Smashing! We’ll collect him later.” I chirped, rubbing my hands together gleefully until remembering how much they hurt.
We have Gizmo home now. The vet wheeled him out like Hannibal Lecter and I couldn’t help noticing the number of fresh scratches adorning every member of staff. I think I heard someone sobbing in a back room.
“Thank you very much.” I said. “He is still sedated though isn’t he?” I added nervously.
They nodded sullenly.
“Thank you.”
We’ve unlocked his cage and are waiting for him to come round.
We waiting, locked in the bathroom. With a chair against the door.