After the dentist, the vets!

It's an expensive month. As well as me probably having to go to the dentist, my four cats have to go to the vet this week.

Their annual jabs are due, and so I have to subject them to the torture of the basket, car, veterinary surgery and car again. Each and every one, they hate it!

They have learnt that as soon as they see that wicker basket come out of the loft hatch, something is going to happen to them which they won’t like. I have resorted to hiding the basket upstairs, shutting all the doors so they can’t get into the bedrooms to hide and locking their cat flap so they can’t leg it into the garden just to get them into it in the first place. I also book the appointment first thing in the morning, when they are almost always indoors and I can guarantee to catch them.

I always feel bad about doing this, even though I know it’s good for them and if I didn’t do it and they got ill not only would I feel incredibly guilty but it would cost me considerably more into the bargain. Two of them in particular cry like babies from the minute I put them into the car until we get to the vets, when they are struck dumb in sheer terror at the smell of dogs and other animals as well as that nasty sickly smell you always seem to get in veterinary surgeries (I’m spelling it in full each time just so as you know I can!). I think it must be the disinfectant, but it’s horrible. Then they endure the indignity of the needle, a thermometer stuck up their bum and a worming tablet stuck down their throat. I'm not surprised they don't like it!

For quite a while afterwards I am sent to Coventry. Each cat skulks off to its favourite chair or corner and regards me with baleful yellow eyes for the rest of the day, as though its life has been blighted for ever. I’m sure they only do it because they know that if I feel guilty enough, not only will they get Felix for tea but also a packet of cat treats instead of their usual Iams. Who says cats don’t know how to manipulate you?

My oldest girl is getting on a bit now, reaching the grand old age of 14 this April. She was bought as a tenth birthday present for my oldest daughter but resides with me. The next oldest is 12, whilst the youngsters are both ten. They all rub along together, although the 12 year old is a bit of a bully and can be treated as a pariah by the others when she has tried to rule the roost and been put firmly in her place by the oldest.

Not only does the oldest cat rule the others, they all rule us. They will sit and stare when you are sitting in their favourite place so intensely that I have been known to move because I felt so uncomfortable with their eyes on me. They demand their meals with monotonous regularity, and create loads of mess with their dirty paws and fur on a level that you wouldn’t tolerate from your children.

I love my cats to bits, and have always been a cat person ever since I was a small child. They have their little personalities and habits, and are a source of fun and enjoyment. They’re not as clever as dogs, being purely decorative, but those cute little furry faces make your heart melt when they rub up to you.

All in all, I wouldn’t have it any other way.