The Good Life

Was it not the most glorious weekend?

Bright and sunny and warm, reminding me yet again that Spring is my favourite time of the year. Pleasant but not ridiculously hot.

Frabjous day, calloooh callay etc.

So I let the sun go my head and started channeling Felicity Kendall in a big way. I didn't go blonde and adorable (much to MrB's annoyance - he luurrves Felicity K), but I did buy a whole heap of tomato, cucumber, lettuce and snow pea plants, so we can go all self-sustainable.

For, like, salads.

But it's a start!

So we planted plants. We weeded'n'feeded. Which prompted a discussion about the vagaries of the English language - because I tried to say we'd 'wed'n'fed' but we hadn't. We'd weeded'n'fed. Stupid, stupid stupidness. I am SO glad it's my mother tongue because I'd be stuffed trying to learn it!

And then... drama!

Because Inigo has caught a couple more rabbits in the last few days (prompting Miss H's question "Daddy, did you not realise an animal has been torn to shreds in the bathroom?") I bought him (the cat, Donnie) a new collar with a chunky big bell attached. He was sunning himself in the garden when I grabbed him to fasten on the collar, and during the resultant struggle I noticed a tick sticking out of his head, just above his eye. We tried to get it out, but to no avail, so MrB had to rush my Schminigo off to the vet, leaving me sobbing and stressing and generally carrying on like the drama queen I am.

It was like this, but white and freakier-looking

He's OK.

Phew!

It turns out he's probably been building up an immunity to iocaine powder over the last few years.

All clear: Stand Down

Well Inigo is making a recovery - it looks like it was just an infection in his mouth. Probably some bird or small furry animal giving him hell from beyond the grave.

And serves himself right too.

So MrB has been giving him an antibiotic tablet every morning and evening, which provoked this conversation last night:

him: why do I have to do all the feral jobs?
me: because I gave birth to your four daughters...
him: but I had to put up with you while you were pregnant...

(cue guffaws from his father... cue withering looks from me and his mother)

later in conversation

him to his father (alluding to my exceptional talent for throwing up into plastic bags in a noiseless and dignified fashion while suffering morning sickness...) and how impressed were you with Actonb's chucking up in the freezer bag on the way to the airport that time...
me: ... and you need reminding why you have to do the feral jobs...?
him: oh. (silence, chastened expression)

Anyway, we have been informed by the vet that Inigo may need to have his teeth cleaned and descaled (huh? from eating too many skinks?), which all sounds well and good, except for the fact that it has to be done under general anaesthetic, and will cost up near $400. For a teeth-clean! So, if we don't get it done, does this make us the stingiest, evilest cat-parents in the whole entire world? Bloggers of the world, tell me it ain't so!

Emergency! Emergency!

Oh No!!!!

I have to take my darling Schminigo to the Vet!

We discovered last night that his mouth is all infected and feral and generally gross, and it broke my little heart to see him mooching around in such obvious pain. My poor baby!

I mean he's 11 (and a half!) and he's losing most of his teeth, but still. I don't like the idea of the house being Inigo-less. In fact I'm not even going to think about it.

*Sticks fingers in ears loudly singing LA LA LA LA*

The last time we took him to the vet was because we discovered that he had fought a car. And kinda won (in that he wasn't dead), but just ended up a little dazed and confused with a big bruise on his jaw. He's so tough!

Oh! My baby...

UPDATE: They've taken blood and urine and are going to do Tests. It may be his kidneys. This is not good, right?

The Schminster

Inigo, our Russian Blue. He was SUPPOSED to be a small cat, one that would be quite happy in a one-bedroom apartment. He's bigger than most of the yappy dogs that live on our street - we have to give him small dog anti-flea stuff. Bloody Cat Protection Society. Never trust old ladies with cats...