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Anything that doesn’t involve a vet visit is perfect. Even if I have to go to work. Even if I’m sick. Alien invasion, zombie apocalypse, whatever. Just not the vet, please. 

Louis Catorze has just been for his steroid jab. His last one was on 5th December, so he’s done quite well to string out this one for almost two months. 

Once again, I had to Act Normal on the morning of his visit, but the jig was well and truly up when I exited the front room and closed the door on him. 

Me: “He knows.”

Cat Daddy: “Oh no. You TOLD him?” 

Catorze fell eerily silent when we hit the A4 but, as soon as we arrived at the Unholy Place and he realised where we were, the screaming resumed, with extra ferocity. In attendance in the waiting room were Pedro, a large cow-cat who stared at Catorze in alarm, and a little white Bichon Frisé, name unknown, who started shaking violently upon hearing the screaming, despite having been perfectly fine before.

Usually, when Catorze kicks off in the vet’s waiting room, the other (human) attendees strike up some sort of friendly small talk, in a “There, but for the grace of God, go I” kind of way. I have often ended up chatting to people after conversation openers such as, “Ooh, he’s a noisy one, isn’t he?” or some such thing. However, on this occasion, nobody spoke. And that actually made things MORE, and not less, awkward. So we all sat there, saying nothing, with Catorze’s screams ringing out into every corner of the waiting room.

I didn’t know where to look: at Pedro the alarmed cow-cat? At the terrified doggie about to have a seizure? Or at Catorze, who was to blame for the chaos and disorder? In the end I just looked at the floor and tried to pretend he wasn’t my cat, even though everyone had seen me walk in with him.

Catorze has lost a little weight (he’s now 2.92kg) due to still being in summer mode and only eating after dark. Yes, I know it’s the middle of winter, and that the summer was some time ago, but that’s Catorze for you. And, apparently, his left kidney is larger than the other. But his so-called heart murmur has vanished without a trace, like frost in the morning sun, so clearly he was faking that. 

£267 later, we left. Yes, that’s right, it cost us that much even though there was nothing new wrong with him, no emergency to fix; we were just having his usual standard treatment, plus paying for the consultation and his next supply of thyroid medication. And, when we arrived home, Catorze sloped off to some unknown place to sleep off his trauma. 

So it seems we managed a full house: 

• Screaming during the journey: check. 
• Abject humiliation in the waiting room: check. 
• Fleeced of lots of money for no good reason: check. 
• Utter feline ingratitude upon returning home: check. 

What a time to be alive. And the best part of it is that we will be back for more in a couple of months’ time.

For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com