Cat

It was always destined to be a busy weekend.

Then, on Friday morning, Mr Big deposited a stomachful of undigested cat food down the stairs. I cleaned up, put my one pair of clean, warm woolly socks into the wash, and kept an eye on him. He proceeded to be quiet all day except when cleaning--rather too regularly--his "bits" (or rather "bit", since he was "diddled" before we ever adopted him). Someone crapped behind the front door, a sure sign of feline distress.

Friday night, he slept soundly on my feet.

Saturday morning, more crap behind the door. Whilst we were in the process of getting ready for rehearsals and piano concert, Mr Big hung around, very uncomfortable. He couldn't, it seemed, bear to sit down.

"UTI," I said. "Why don't we try and get him an appointment at the vets when we pop in to pick up the prescription cat food."

When we were sat in the car, ready for the off, we also decided that appointment times should include Saturday afternoon, even if it meant M missing Looby Loo's concert. M missed the concert. The cat spent most of the afternoon being required to produce a sample and having bloods and urine tested.

UTI, but fortunately not kidneys. Ten day's worth of painkillers and antibiotics.

The poor lamb soaked himself and didn't make it upstairs to bed last night (it's amazingly peaceful when you've only one man trying to steal the bedding from you). He's thrown two meals up, but has contemplated bouncing on his sister. (She was very cross we brought him back from the V E T S.)

He's 14 or 15. We've been feeding him prescription cat food for a decade to stop this sort of problem. Wouldn't wish it one my worst enemy, let alone my worst enemy's cat.