Every morning starts the same way in our house – the radio alarm goes off at 06:45 and we stick it on snooze. It’s Classic FM on our radio alarm, so the snooze button comes in handy: seven minutes is just about long enough to get past the bloody adverts. The next thing that happens is some grumbling about how early it is, and then Little Miss AKA: Grendel, AKA: Kitty Poo Cat, comes treadling up the duvet and sits on my chest, purring like a mad thing and demanding her early morning cat sweeties.
Grendel favours Tesco’s ‘Combinos’, a sort of chickeny pellet in a crunchy cheese-ish shell. They look a bit like tiny pillows. Or savoury tick-tacs*. She parks herself on my chest and doesn’t move until she’s been fed three of them. One. Two. Three. And that’s when she had her fit. Just a small one, no more than thirty or forty seconds, but it was obvious something was wrong. Needless to say, She Who Must and I are very, very worried.
So, we take her to the vet (WHICH SHE DOES NOT LIKE) where a man who looks just out of short trousers proceeds to examine her, and takes her temperature. Not very dignified. I have to say: I’m glad my doctor didn’t break out the long, glass thermometer and KY Jelly when I was there on Friday. Mind you, some people will pay for ladies to dress up as nurses and do just that. Probably with a rolling pin**. Different strokes and all that.
And then he tells us she’s probably had a petit mal seizure. Which, to be honest, doesn’t make us feel any better.
But, other than her trembling, falling over and looking a bit off the legs for that wee spell this morning, she’s been fine. In fact the trip to the vet – which involved much yowling and panting on her behalf – seems to have been the low point of her day as far as she’s concerned. And the worst of it is she’ll have to go back again on Tuesday for a blood test.
Today the vet got lucky. I think if he tries that thermometer trick on her again she’s going to have his testicles off. If it happens I’ll post a picture...
* Which would be cool. I’d buy Pickled Onion tick-tacs.
** If you’re playing along at home, for God’s sake watch out for splinters.