Lucy Pussy is ill. As I am new to this pet owning lark, I didn’t quite pick up on the clues quick enough. As a result, I spent a few days asking her why she was mewing so much and did she want more treats? It took some rather antisocial behaviour (on her behalf, I hasten to add) before I finally got around to Googling and then phoning the Vet.
Oh the worry of it all! Oh the cost of it all! And the pampering and smothering and buying of tidbits and fountains from which Madam can drink ‘flowing’ water. (The latter works a treat, by the way.) We’ve had 4 injections so far with never a squeak. (What a brave wee soldier.) We’ve gathered the smallest urine sample in history with a pipette and test-tube affair. We’ve gasped with horror at the result and then been overcome with grief for shouting when she peed on my bed. We’ve been dismayed when Madam was not lying and side-somersaulting at the bedroom door in the morning or waiting patiently until I came out of the shower. In fact we have been checking every half an hour that Madam is still breathing as she lay prone on the spare bed. It has all been rather dramatic and exhausting, frankly.
Today we seem to have turned a corner and we thank God for that. Now we are left with the pills and the potions to give. We have taken advice on which method is best and we tried two this morning: the secret method from a certain Provost and squishing it up in food. Neither has worked so far. This afternoon we go hunting for smoked sausage which apparently secretes said pills beautiful and is a delicacy in pussy-world. We are not convinced.