A week of freedom

Well I never expected to be left home alone for an entire WEEK! That's what it was in the end. A whole week! Ellen never would have done that before I was five.

The talking food contraption whirred and spat out my food. The first few times I thought Ellen had come home because it played a stupid little message from her. It didn't take long however for me to have it sussed. Humans really do underestimate our intelligence.

The only living human I saw in all that time (aside from neighbours pottering about in the driveway) was Sarah, who came to refill the whirring food contraption a few times. Other than that, no-one. Nothing.

My feline flap was left open for the entire time so I roamed at large when and where I wanted. So aside from the fact that Ellen turned the heating off and the house was freezing, I was quite comfortable. And when it got too cold, I just crawled under the doona.

She came home yesterday and lounged about on the sofa all day while I slept on my cushion. The first thing she did was feed me. The second thing she did was put on the heating! It was very companionable.

Even though I am more than capable of looking after myself (so long as I am fed), it is nice to have her home.

so long as I get fed

Home alone again. This is the second night -- at least, E isn't home yet and she didn't come home last night and it's pretty late . . .

Now I know what the flying saucer thing was for -- the one that talks. Every morning and evening it whirrs and talks and rotates around until food is revealed. Sarah came around tonight and refilled it, so I can only assume E isn't coming home for another day or so . . .

Bored. But at least I can play outside. And so long as I get fed, I suppose it's not so bad.

A bad feeling . . .

I have a bad feeling . . . E is up to something. She's getting home from work later and later . . . sometimes I wonder whether she actually lives here!

After leaving me home alone for a night last weekend, I thought she'd have made more of an effort to be around this week.

Even more intriguing, she's spent the last hour or so playing around with a contraption that looks a bit like a flying saucer. It whirs and gyrates and 'talks' to me (in Ellen's voice). And now she's put it down where my food bowl is supposed to go . . .

I have a very bad feeling about this!

Obesity management -- not!

Things are definitely afoot at the moment, and not in a good way. I've just found out that Dr C and E are colluding on my diet.

It seems that E is actually feeding me not-very-much-at-all (I could have told you that!) so the actual amount that I'm to eat isn't to be reduced at all (thanks to the cat gods). Instead, in order to lose weight (~1/2 kg), I've apparently got to have "royal canin obesity management" food mixed in with my urinary food.

What the --? OBESITY? I am NOT obese!

This is all Ellen's fault. She was the one who asked Dr C if she thought I was fat. And Ellen is the one who has clearly not been encouraging me to do enough exercise. It's her responsibility, not mine.

All this, and I've just been stuck at home alone for 24 hours as well. My life absolutely sucks.

Behaving badly at the vet

It was just getting to the point when I was sure E had forgotten about my annual vet appointment. Somewhat remarkably for me, I hadn't been subjected to the trauma in over a year, and I was quite happy to keep it that way. But no, she had to remember.

She put me in a bad mood to start with because she didn't feed me as soon as she got home. She oughta know that I require sustenance the moment she arrives. It's been all day, and I'm starving. After all, she doesn't go all day without eating.

So then she stuffs me into the cage and I know something's up. She doesn't have a suitcase, so I know we're not going to the island (thanks to the cat gods). So where then? Oh $#*&, the VET!

First up there's a stupid teeny weeny pug-faced dog yapping at me in the waiting room. That didn't help my mood. It made me grumpy and irritable.

Oh all right, it made me foul. I was absolutely the devilcat from hell.

But no self-respecting feline should ever put up with being prodded and poked and having a light shone in your eyes and jabbed with a big needle and weighed -- how humiliating!

So I growled and I hissed and I scratched and I spat and I growled and I hissed and I scratched and I spat and I . . .

Dr C will probably never talk to me again.

As punishment, she has recommended E take me to an eye specialist AND go on a diet.

#$*&%!!!

There is nothing wrong with my eyes, thank you very much, I can see perfectly well. So what if one of them has changed colour? It still works. (Seems Dr C thinks I should have something called a bilateral retinal exam.) The strange thing is that it seems to have little to do with the colour-change.

And as for the diet . . . well all I can say is that E has tried that before . . . she keeps threatening me with a diet, but never follows through. She's shown she's extremely susceptible to my 'pleading' when it comes to food.

I've got her wound around my little finger.

Bet I can make her forget about the eye doctor. Whoever heard of an animal opthamologist anyway?

PS: For once no urinary issues -- woo hoo!