Susan Morrison: When our Jurassic Park raptor needs a vet, trouble ensues...
You don't need the details, but the cat was unwell. A vet trip was required. As a family, therefore, we were all hands on deck to get the cat in the box.
You don’t need the details, but the cat was unwell. A vet trip was required. As a family, therefore, we were all hands on deck to get the cat in the box.
We corralled him in the living room. The son downed him with a flying tackle that would have gladdened the heart of a Hastings brother and had them dancing in the streets of Galashiels. The daughter swung into action with the towel and managed to neutralise the back claws, his weapon of choice in these situations.
We couldn’t do anything about his banshee war cry, so I would just like to apologise to any passengers on the arriving London to Edinburgh Easyjet flight which passed overhead at just that moment. It must have sounded like a Lakota warrior gearing up for a touch of the Little Big Horns.
The Yorkshire husband was on standby with the car keys poised. We were on course to go wheels-up at Zero Light Thirty. Well-oiled machine, clicking into place, moving like clockwork, you name it, if the cliché fits wear it, and this was the Vivienne Westwood of cat box packing action.
However, that machine with the great oiling is only as fit for purpose as its weakest cog, who promptly hit herself in the face with the cat box, dropped it on her foot, collided with the cat in midair, caused the daughter to loosen her grip on the furry fury who let out a bloodcurdling rebel yell and leapt to freedom.
I think we all know who that cack handed box handler was.
We regrouped. No time for recriminations.
The trouble was, of course, that now he knew we were coming. He was ready. He was cornered, but giving us the full-on tiptoe swagger move with the arched back and a tail like a toilet brush. The resemblance to Mick Jagger was uncanny.
The general consensus was that we were gonna need a bigger towel.
Son and daughter took either end of the beach towel. Former box operative was demoted to ‘cat treat, shake rattle and distraction duty’.
Husband took on box handling. He moved with the silky stealth of a Yorkshireman in his 50s who regards a tricky Sudoku puzzle as quite enough exertion, thank you.
Ominously, Cat Two and Cat Three suddenly appeared to flank the alpha male. One glance at those three pairs of brilliant green eyes and you just knew a fiendish intelligence was at work. Yorkshire husband was Bob Peck in Jurassic Park. The original one. And we all know how well that turned out.
Fortunately the treats did the trick. Raptors may not be susceptible to Dreamies, but Cat Two and Three would pretty much sell their souls for tuna-flavoured kitty snacks.
Target was acquired by some swift sibling teamwork. Cat boxed, in car.
He doesn’t like the vet. I see his point of view, having made the policy decision some years ago to avoid the human medical profession. Too darned keen to poke about various bits and pieces for my taste. If it’s not actually falling off or smelling strange then I tend to believe that a combination of aspirin, Germolene and a ten-minute nap can cure just about anything. However, he knows he’s a good-looking boy, so His Lordship strolled out of the box, sat on the table and waited to be praised. We explained the problem. He was obviously in a bit of distress when he needed to go to the loo.
‘Ah, yes’, said the vet, who promptly shoved his digit into the cat’s rear end.
He didn’t expect that. To be fair, neither did I. I’m not sure which one of us looked the most outraged.
He has an infection. We got tablets. He can now urinate luxuriously.
They sit downstairs, the three of them. They think I can’t hear them, but I can. He’s telling them something. Sometimes, I walk into the room and those green eyes turn in my direction . . .
It’s always a bad hair day for The Donald
Mr Lambert taught Latin at my school. He was famous for never leaving the school building on windy days.
On the one occasion he was spotted in the playground on a breezy morning, his combover lifted clear into the air. The combination of gels, oils and sprays meant that the sticky structure retained its integrity.
It billowed upwards and outwards like the spinnaker sail of an ocean-going yacht, a sheet of fused grey wiry hair.
Every time I look at Trump’s head I see that spinnaker.
Taking liberties with oppressed
I wonder if the French will ask for their statue back? I mean, she’s Lady Liberty,welcoming the poor, tired masses, yearning to breathe free. She’s not a nightclub bouncer turning back the oppressed because they are wearing the wrong shoes, or believe in the wrong sort of God.