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.