“Look, it’s for your own good!”
“I’m really not trying to poison you”

Negotiations with elegant black cat were not going well.

After a rush Saturday night trip to an emergency vet followed by a tense Sunday waiting for her to be looked at by a second vet, turns out all the dozy mouser had wrong with her was grass stuck in her throat.

Cats are deceptively fragile machines. As previously discussed, Rumpole fell foul of a piece of string. Holly tried to better her with a piece of grass. Doubtless, Rumpole will attempt to regain her title of most-pathetic-moggy by injuring herself on a fluffy towel.

Anyway, Holly had no trouble taking the antibiotics cunningly crushed into her food and even liked the anti-furball stuff I was to paste onto her paws for her to lick off.

At First.

By day two, applying the paste required the use of oven gloves and a vice, and resulted in a “dirty protest” style smearing of brown gunk all over the kitchen.

I’m sure there’s a reason why i haven’t turned them into slippers. I’m SURE there is.