Fat Cats

So it's here, the Easter holidays.  Two weeks to spend with my lovely son.  This is Day One....... all about the cats.

6:50am I am rudely awakened by the sound of one of my fat cats boaking up a fur ball. I have 2 fat cats. I lie in bed thinking "please don't wake up Imogen, please don't wake up Imogen, please don't....." fuck it.  Too late.  The boaking noise has woken her up.  So now I have to get up and deal with Imogen then clean up cat sick.  What a fucking great start to the day.  It's Monday.  It's not even 7am.  It's day one of the school holidays and here I am, on my knees cleaning up cat sick. Can my life get any better?! Rimsky, Fat Cat 1, will be getting a swift boot up the arse when I see her. Now Blaine is also awake and is reminding me it's the school holidays. Yes. I. know.

So my cats.  Rimsky and Bartok.  Yes, you read correctly, Rimsky and Bartok, named as I'd recently graduated from uni and had spent God knows how many years attempting to understand the world of classical music - how I passed that Degree I will never know, but I did, with Honours. PMSL.  Seriously. Anyway. They are named after composers.  Google them as I know fuck all about them now - I graduated 9 years ago, I don't even know if I can read music anymore! Rimsky is a big black hairy beast......precious, spoilt and looks at you as if you're a piece of shit.  Bartok is fat and a noisy bastard.  He is the cause of most of my financial woes as he suffers from urinary problems - and no insurance company will touch him.  In the past year he's been hospitalised twice, a catheter shoved up his arse, shaved and humiliated.  All at a ridiculous expense - the vet bloody loves us.  He's on a specialist diet.  It's £7.80 or something ridiculous for 12 pouches.  He gets 3 a day.  You do the maths - it's bloody expensive.  He needs to lose weight as he's fat.  In December he was 7.4kg.  Fat Bastard.  So a diet started.  He was weighed last month - "oooooh he's lost too much weight" said the nurse, "tell you what, lets take some blood and make sure he's not got something wrong with a/b/c at the most ridiculous cost of £50" No - he's lost too much weight as he's on a diet.  But the blood was taken and the bill was paid.  Again. Today it's been 4 weeks since his last weigh in and he has to go back.......(his blood results were fine by the way, he's losing weight because he's on a diet - stupid bloody nurse, I'm sure she's on commission)

This is Tom's job.  Tom who was on night shift last night.  Tom who is a grumpy git at the best of times, fling in night shift, less sleep than normal and a trip to the vet with Bartok - you can imagine the look of joy on his face.  So out comes the cat basket, Bartok suddenly develops the speed of a ninja and disappears under the futon bed.  Tom slams the bedroom door shouting at Blaine "Keep the door closed!!! Don't you DARE open this door" Bartok is clinging on to the carpet under the bed for dear life.  He knows whats coming - every time he goes in this bag he's taken to a place where they shove not nice things into him. So, understandably, he doesn't really like it.  Tom has a towel.  If you're a cat owner you will know why he has a towel.

The futon bed is moved and Tom is tripping over a million and one things shouting and cursing like a mad man before managing to squeeze his belly in behind the futon to grab Bartok.  "Fuck Sake Bartok! Get out from under there"  Yeeeesssss.... Tom believes Bartok can speaka de English.  He can't.  He's a cat.  He understands the noise of the electronic tin-opened (yes, I'm posh) and his name.  Everything else is just "blah, blah, blah"  so shouting instructions at him really doesn't help the situation. Best not mention this to Tom, he will just erupt.

He gets him, flings him in the bag and I think he's now in shock that he got him in first time, but the zip is stuck. "FUCK! FUCK! DON'T JUST STAND THERE, GET IT ZIPPED" He screeches at me as he holds Bartok down in some head-lock wrestling move that The Rock would be proud of. Calmly I zip up the bag, the zip wasn't stuck - Tom is just totally incompetent. Bartok is RAGING. And off they pop to the vets. Bartok fighting with the cat bag. Tom covered in sweat. Blaine and Imogen looking totally bemused as they wave good bye to Bartok "is he going to be a star mummy?" asks Blaine (in Blaine's world you become a star when you die, it's how we explained my dad's death to him) "nope, not a star......" then I mutter "unless your dad's driving kills him on the way to the vets"

So he's weighed.  He's now 6kg - which is good.  And the nurse is probably furious as she can see no reason for him to have any procedures.  Normally we walk out of that vet with a hefty bill.  Last time I went with Rimsky she convinced me Rimsky was stressed and we left with Feliway cat diffuser thing, some herbal spray and ointment for her fur balls.  I only took her in to get weighed (which is free) I can't remember that bill - I think I've blocked it out of my memory. She's not stressed, she just hates the vet and is "precious" - looks a bit like the Queen.  But without the tiara.  She has nothing to be stressed about - she has the life of Riley, lounges about on my bed all day, gets fed on demand, refuses to leave the house if it's too hot/cold/raining/snowing/windy/dirty - so she stays in 24/7.  Tom even leaves the kitchen tap on for her to drink from.  She cries - Tom responds.  Rimsky is HIS cat. And she knows it. She has the vet next Monday to get weighed, Tom will also deal with that.

So, I've now introduced you to my Fat Cats.  They will probably pop up now and again in my blogs. I could go on and on about them - I have a few stories to tell, but I won't.  

Oh, did I mention it's the school holidays - will fill you in on that tomorrow.  I'm going to soft play - or Hell as I prefer to call it. Best stock up on wine.