A Sorry Tale

Anna, my wife, has had several good ideas in our 33 year marriage, but getting a kitten to keep our resident feral cat company was not one of them; in fact, I would say, it was in her top three stinkers.

Earlier in the year I recounted our travails at trying to introduce the cats to each other, without big cat (Pantoufle) killing the little cat (Mimolette). Time is a great healer... but in this case it wasn't and things went from bad to worse.

Our hallway became the 38th parallel, keeping the warring factions apart. Now, demilitarized zones are all well and good, until someone (Anna) leaves a door open!

There was a lot of screeching, hissing, clawing, fur flying... and that was just Anna. At one point big cat had little cat in her mouth! Anna managed to separate the two by hurling a cushion at big cat. It was horrible. The kitten had been clawed in the eye and a rivulet of blood was running down his cheek. We felt terrible. What had we (particularly Anna) subjected this poor kitten to?

The vet in Airvault, after examining the pierced eyeball, said we would need to go and see a specialist eye vet in Châtellerault (a place I had never heard of). Being a tightwad my first thought was 'specialist' that sounds expensive. 

The following day in Châtellerault the specialist confirmed little cat would need an operation. Trying to sound nonchalant I asked how much...roughly. Between four and five hundred euros she replied (it cost 499€). I winced. On the long drive home I reminded Anna of a distant conversation “Let's get a kitten,” she said. “It's free!”

The first time I wept in a vets was when our pet Labrador was put down. On seeing the kitten post op my lip started quivering, and my breath went funny. The injured eye had been sewn shut, involving a small piece of sponge being cross-stitched onto his head (giving him a Denis Healey look) and one of those cones around his neck, to stop him pulling the stitches out, tied with a rather camp bit of ribbon.

The vet was absolutely fantastic as she explained the various pain killers, antibiotics and eyedrops which had to be administered in the days to come. “And how long does he have to keep the cone on?” I asked. “A month.” A month!

For the following thirty days our house became Fort Knox in lockdown. Metal barriers were erected outside the living room door (where the kitten, like Terry Waite, has spent his confinement), to give us a couple of extra vital seconds should big cat dash in or little cat dash out. My inner thighs have certainly had a working out this last month as I have had to straddle my leg above my waist every time I have entered or exited the living room; sometimes, simultaneously having to balance snacks and hot beverages. If I was forced to run the 100 metres hurdles I think I would do okay.

Luckily our living room has two doors, one of which is to an outside terrace and depending on whether big cat is in or out we would use the appropriate door. It's been like a Ray Cooney farce in our house with doors opening and closing accompanied by 'Big cat's in' or 'Big cat's out'. Through wind and driving rain we will have been seen scurrying along our back terrace. This lunacy has become normality; it is not until friends come round and we have to explain why we live like this.

After the longest month of my life the date for our return to the vet's arrived. I have never been so glad to be back in Châtellerault, a place, four weeks earlier, I hadn't even heard of. We feared the worst...the vet took the kitten to another room and on her return: cone, stitches and sponge had all been removed and the vet informed us the operation had been a success. Thank goodness! And we didn't have to pay any extra, it was all included in the initial payment. Could this day get any better?

Through all this Mimolette, despite his ordeal, has been a joy: running around the living room, bumping into furniture with his cone; allowing us to put eye drops in four times a day; sleeping through the night; crapping in his tray and curling up on our laps and giving unconditional love. So it is with great sadness we must now try and re-home the little fella (if you know of anyone, do get in touch).

Well, that's me for 2025, my New Year's resolution? No more cat articles in 2026. Have a great Chrimbo and see you on the other side.