We stood poring over the paperwork for the removal of the cojones. And so forth.
“Because there are two of them, they will keep each other’s stress levels down. It’s very good for them. Bring them in between 8 – 8.30am. Oh, and make sure,” the mild-mannered cojones remover advised sagely, “that you keep them off food from 8pm the night before.”
I nodded and visualised these particular cats without their little bowls of dry chow from 8pm. And once again, I berated myself for failing to request a full psychological assessment when gazing through the bars at two tiny helpless, furry little kittens.
A word of advice. The little bundless of fluff are also bundles of personhood. Each has its own definite sense of self. You just won’t see it for a few weeks.
And then they’ll gain the status of size and begin to rule the asylum.
My two adorable kittens are now thugs without morals. They still look beautiful but they have been exploring the possibilities of mob rule, gang warfare, terrorism and so forth. They have been attempting to annexe their empire past the floor to the table, yea, unto the working surfaces.
This last is perhaps the most disastrous. Because until I can train them otherwise, all bets are off. You cannot leave a thing unattended; Monty is not fussy, and Millie eats whatever Monty steals. They are not choosy. I saw Monty carting off a large piece of lettuce the other day.
Yet they have a natural authority. Where has this come from? Siam, the land of their forebears? Millie looks like a tiny, huge-eyed, grave lynx, and Monty has the classic Siamese gait coupled with a lion’s colouring. A killer combination.
8pm came and went. All food bowls were removed and we held our breath, waiting to see what would happen when these two regal bandits were deprived of what they required.
They went searching. Of course they did. Every time we went into the kitchen, there would be a cat, stood on a working surface with “What?” writ large in the air above his head.
By 9pm Monty was attempting to hump his sister. Now we could add incest to their list of petty misdemeanours. I grimaced. The next morning could not come soon enough for me.
We made it through the night, somehow. If they ate anything, I knew nothing about it. And then, I laid out the packed lunch stuff to make everyone’s sandwiches and left my post.
Next thing, there’s a cat in the middle of the kitchen floor tucking into a very large slice of roast chicken.
I dived for the remains. Monty was undeterred; he hung on for grim life to the other end of the chicken. Heave, ho, we went and what small results I got were despatched to the bin with all speed.
Half an hour later, it was a most penitent owner who walked into the vets, confessing all to the ladies behind the counter. They chuckled and consulted the vet surgeon: it was ok, they informed me. They could operate on the cats a little later.
It was with an overriding sense of relief that I left two cats in baskets behind me and headed home to a day with just the dog and I.
A crime-free Friday; a little respite. And maybe, if the cat came back without the cojones, there would be change in the air.