A couple of hours ago I returned from what felt like a tour of ‘nam. Given the questionable mother that I am (hey, I grew up in the country where hessian bags of kittens were routinely thrown into rivers – and yes, of course I ran downstream and tried to fish them out, but nevertheless I am from the school of tough love), I can count the times Patsy has been to the vet on one hand. This also supports my belief that money is much better spent on a pair of shoes than a vet’s bill.
Nevertheless, since she was beaten stupid by the neighborhood thugs last weekend, it had to be done. So after 5 minutes or so of being bitten scratched and hissed at, it was off to the Lort Smith. Her mood didn’t improve as we stood 15 minutes in line with an array of perfectly behaved pets, while I tried not to notice that my cat-carry backpack was howling and hissing like something out of The Exorcist. She behaved much better for the vet, as they do, but as he stuck that thermometer up her arse she looked at me with a look that said “My bladder and your studio gotta date when we get back to our place, and if I were you I’d shut your bedroom door tonight.”
She needn’t have bothered – the bill was all the punishment I needed. And because I’m into self-harm I decided to have a look on Net-A-Porter to see what I could have bought with that money – and apparently, the answer is quite a lot. Like this Vivienne Westwood Anglomania dress I’ve been obsessed with for 2 months. Now who’s howling and hissing?