Heavenly Beverley : WHO In Their RIGHT MIND Would Have A PET?

Obviously, I am not in my right mind as our current menagerie stands at two dogs, a cat, and the Pirate Parrot. I understand that our posse of pets isn't extremely numerous compared to others, however this week they have all combined to be as trying and expensive as possible.

Take Madame Cat, for example. Seemingly at death's door three months ago, the combination of daily blood pressure medication and a specialist feline renal biscuit have seen her condition to return to as normal as possible for a thirteen-year-old cat, as well as gain a kilo in weight.

Her Majesty was due for her next monitoring when we noticed a lump on her back. This did not seem to bother her in the slightest and when we took her to see Graeme, our long-suffering vet, her temperature was normal and the lump seemed to be innocuous. And then he discovered the puncture mark on her side.

The Cat had a humongous abscess caused by the bite of another. This event has occurred before as Ruby would have to be the worst street fighter in the known universe. Her idea of defence is utter submission, which only causes a short delay before the antagonist sinks his or her teeth into a tasty part of her anatomy.

So Ruby the Cat had to stay overnight, have the abscess operated on and was duly sent home the next day with two drains protruding from the wound, looking like she had been a participant in some highly religious ceremony. Choice.

As I am still out of commission with One Bung Knee, Michael was required to return Her Royal Grumpiness to Graeme to have said drains removed this morning. We stupidly considered that the cat would be more docile at entering her carrier. Wrong. She managed to slash Michael's upper arm as well as insult my right hand during four outraged lunges. Apparently, her behaviour did not improve by one iota at the vet's but at least we were saved from further injury.

She is now at home, scowling from her position of complete safety on our bed.

Not to be outdone, Pip has torn or ruptured his anterior cruciate ligament, the one that puts footy players out for a season. How he did this to himself is unknown, though it may have been one of those really scary leaves purposefully flying in his general direction.

How he was diagnosed was being muzzled, one vet and I restraining him and the other vet pinning him on his side and manipulating the dodgy ligament. Pip retaliated to piddling in every direction. Fortunately, he'd had a pooh after breakfast so he was unable to use diarrhoea as a weapon of mass destruction. However, if his looks could have killed, we would have all ended up on the opposite side of life.

Our choices were to spend an absolutely obscene amount of money on surgery for Pip, or treat him conservatively with anti-inflammatory medication and confined inside. Guess which course of treatment we chose. Pip has a mental block when the advice for him is no running or jumping. He is satisfactorily managing to not follow doctor's orders, even when kept in the house.

As for Bloody Ruby, she has behaved badly on several occasions with a startling swiftness that has left us open-mouthed. In her pursuit of anything edible (cat pooh, cat biscuit, cat litter), she has broken our key pot in our bedroom, howled at the closed door of the bedroom, riffled through the litter tray and chased the cat to collect one of those delicious crumbed sausages fresh out of the cat's bum. Charming.

During her examination with Graeme, he announced that she is actually looking quite fit (hence her frantic quest for more food) and that she only looks fat because she has a low slung belly. Oh, my giddy aunt! If Ruby is an example of evolution or what the creationists call Intelligent Design, she is an epic failure in both theories. Apart from her lack of legs, collapsing trachea, disreputable ears, excited sneezing and being as thick as two short planks, she now has a confirmed gravity-driven belly.

This week is thankfully drawing to a close. We are suffering from financial shell shock and other physical wounds, courtesy of Her Feline Moodiness. Apart from yet another visit to the vet to remove Madame Cat's stitches in ten days, we have absolutely no desire to experience the wilds of Northam again for a while.

Except for physio on Wednesday...