12 July 2005
My Misha-cat is sick and in hospital.
She was fine at ten oíclock, when I went upstairs to have a bath and write a blog and such; when I came down again at midnight, her head was all twisted round and she couldnít stand and she was utterly distressed. So I yelled for the vet, and he said heíd probably better see her; and I couldnít get a taxi, so I carried her the good mile that it is to the surgery, and it all felt very portentous because the only other time Iíd done that was when I took Sophie on her final visit, and tonight we were watched by little black cats on every corner, seemingly.
But theyíre nice at the vetís, they always make us both feel better; and though he was full of awful warnings about the worse things it could be, the vet did think it was probably a disease of the middle ear, so heís given her megadoses of steroids and antibiotics and kept her in overnight. And charged me an appalling amount for the privilege, because of course he had to come in specially from his nice little cottage in the country, which Iím fairly sure Iíve actually paid for over the years.
And now Iím home again, itís half one on a hot night and my catís under the doctor and I am not entirely clear what Iím going to do for the next eight hours, before I can phone to ask how she is. No doubt Iíll think of something. There are books in the house.
© Chaz Brenchley 2005
Reproduced here by permission of Chaz Brenchley, who asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.