A wee drama every day

When will my suffering end? Today I was hauled out from under the cupboard, where I was trying to remain unnoticed by the wee-obsessed human, dragged into the bathroom, and stuffed into the carrying-box to be taken to the evil vet yet again.

She said a few tiny crystals had been found in yesterday’s sample. I was told to be brave.

It’s hard to be brave all the time, especially with crystals in your waterworks. I couldn’t help myself; I had to Let Go in the box, and once I started to wee, couldn’t stop. She stuffed a towel in alongside me and blotted up a generous sample’s-worth, and put me in the car, remarking rudely on the smell.

The vet was kinder this time – he didn’t tip me out of the box, but just reached in and stabbed me with the antibiotic needle. Then I was carted off home again. I yowled all the way there and back, and once I got home, I shot out of the cat flap to tell Lottie all about my ill-treatment, and didn’t come in again for hours. I think I made my point.

I have to be ‘kept an eye on’, apparently. Spying, I call it. Police surveillance. Another means of oppression and infringement of my feline rights.

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Twenty One!



I held out for 21 hours!

I could have gone for longer, but she picked me up and carried me upstairs to the shower room, where she said her visitors this evening wouldn’t be able to view my cruel confinement.

She shut me in, and went downstairs to get the litter tray and the dinner that I had no intention of eating.

And before she had time to come back, I had a Little Accident on the floor. How embarrassing.

But for some reason, she seemed pleased, and syringed some of it up.

As I said, humans are very, very strange.

Now I have my wall-sitting duties to carry out. In freedom. Millie is already there, waiting for me.

I may be some time…..

A prisoner’s tale 2

I like to spend time looking over the wall at the harsh world Out There.

But it’s a harsh world indoors too. I have been re-arrested, and locked in the sitting room.

Why? I plead, I have done nothing wrong! And it’s only 8.45 p.m. – much too early to come indoors for the evening!

In the fireplace, there is a bowl of water, a small dish of cat milk (slightly diluted – she’s mean like that), a dish of cat biscuits, and in a corner a tray with some weird white plastic cat litter in it. There are some Dreamies too. I love Dreamies.

I shan’t eat any of it. I will go on Hunger Strike.

I think that I may be locked up for a long time; she doesn’t usually provide me with the essentials like this when she is exercising her capacity for oppression and ill-treatment of innocent cats. Hunger Strike will show her that I am a brave rebel; she cannot break my spirit!

She says I must wee in the weird white plastic cat litter. Then she will collect a sample, and take it to the evil vet tomorrow for inspection. Humans are very, very strange.

Maybe I will go on Urination Strike instead. Those Dreamies are so nice….

A prisoner’s tale

I have been the victim of a terrible miscarriage of justice.

I have been accused of an offence against the State*.

I have been arrested in a brutal fashion**, and imprisoned in a crate.

And Rachel the Merciless drove the prison van and took me to a place that every cat dreads: The Pets Penitentiary Veterinary Surgery***.

The evil vet dragged me out of the crate. Needles were stuck in me. The words ‘crystals’ and ‘cystitis’ were used. Are they trumped-up charges against me?****

Comments were made about how I smelled. Rachel said that she now smelled like me.

After being stabbed by the evil vet, I was shoved back into the prison crate, and put back into the van. Rachel listened to Woman’s Hour on the way home, where a young woman spoke of being imprisoned in the Middle East. Rachel said I should stop crying and count myself lucky. The callousness of that woman!

When I was returned home, I cried piteously. My friends came to visit, and to plead for my release.

And only then would Rachel let me out. My own cries had fallen on deaf ears and a hard heart, but Lottie and Florence succeeded in my appeal against false imprisonment.

I intend to sell my story to the press.

Rachel says:


* small dark drops of wee around the house since yesterday, coinciding with Scooter’s jumps on and off furniture and surfaces. Definitely not spraying, more like leaking due to discomfort.


** a fairly traumatic chasing round room of crying, frightened cat, with accompanying tell-tale trail of aforementioned dark and malodorous wee over furniture and carpet. And on me as he was wedged carefully into the travel basket.


*** the surgery where I had taken a small sample of aforementioned etc yesterday for testing, and where urinary crystals were seen clearly through the vet’s microscope. (I hadn’t looked through a microscope in years.)


**** painkillers and long-lasting antibiotics administered for this most unpleasant condition for anyone’s bladder, feline or human.


And then home to shampoo carpets and chairs, wash my clothes, and give Scooter little treats to compensate for his ordeal. Merciless, me? Ha!

The Interceptor

Rachel and the dogs often try to go out without me. Foolish creatures. 
I wait; there are lots of places to sit quietly and watch out for them. Then I pop out of the shrubbery. Millie the Interceptor!

Rachel doesn’t seem thrilled to see me. They intended to walk right through the park, and for some strange reason, they don’t like me to walk so far with them.

We walk for a while, and then Rachel has to take us all home. She mutters under her breath.

I let them wait, while I relax amongst the daisies.

And then I’m ready to go home with them.

Rachel hates to see me crossing this road, but how else can I lie in wait for them in the trees?

And then we reach our back door. She seems relieved that we are all home again.

I enjoyed our little group walk.

Rachel will have to sneak out later, when I have my nap.