Ron and Henry were conveyed to the vet today, to be neutered. As is the way of things these days, this can no longer be done at the little surgery in Hotwells; instead, we had to drag them all the way over to Zetland Road for 8-8.30 a.m. The traffic in our village is appalling from about 7.30 a.m., so we were up early, enboxed the chaps and drove across Bristol.
Neither they nor the other cats had had anything to eat since about 7.45 last night, and so there was a deal of plaintive mewing en route, but we arrived safely without them actually consuming the cat box, and delivered them in plenty of time.
Within an hour or so, the vet hospital phoned and said that Ron’s (it would be Ron, wouldn’t it?) second testicle had not descended, and thus his op would be a little more serious. And expensive. They have to “go in and get it”.
We collected them at 14:00 and brought them home to, on the vet’s recommendation, “a light meal and rest and quiet”. The mewing in the car was rather more urgent on the return journey, which was – I think – due to hunger.
I’m not joking here: within 10 minutes of getting home, they’d consumed an entire chicken breast (boiled and chopped), a pouch of Whiskas, and half a can of Whiskas. They’re now roaming the house to see if there’s anything else nice to eat. Ron has killed a cardboard, and Henry has seen to a piece of plastic coated wire. Nobody’s told *them* they’re supposed to be resting.
I have a second chicken breast, which is supposed to be for the three big cats – what do you think the chances are?
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