Dr Do as Little Pet-sitting as
Possible
By Sheryl-Lee Kerr
NEVER ever let me pet-sit for you. I know the temptation is there:
you’re saying it’s either her or that tweed cap-wearing animal doctor on TV
who always squats so gosh, darned authoritatively.
Well, pick him, dammit.
Unless he strains a groin on that squat manoeuvre thingy, Dr Harry tends to at least look in control. I, on the other hand, am anything but.
My potted pet history began with fish. At age 14, I was minding a
girlfriend’s goldfish and decided to get rid of the pesky ants near the
bowl’s edge. A liberal dose of surface spray took care of all the ants. And,
um, all the fish.
You know, I don’t think thesauruses fully grasp just how many variations there are on the word stupid. Luckily, I got to hear them all.
I raise this scarring fish incident to explain how panicked I was by
a call from a friend recently, begging me to pick his tomcat-mauled kitten
up after surgery, as he had to go to work.
‘‘Don’t worry,’’ my mate assured me, ‘‘Bo will probably just want to
sleep.’’
Sheaah right. Like no babysitter has heard that line before.
I should point out that I was always the most squeamish girl in
class. When toad dissections came our way, I was the one the teacher kept asking if I could ‘‘see from back there’’.
‘‘Back there’’ constituted the back of the room, under my desk with my hands over my eyes while mumbling nonsensically.
And so, naturally, of all the people he knows, my friend picks me to collect his mauled pussycat. Oo-kaay.
So there I am, eyeballing Bo, who has more stitches than Frankenstein’s monster, a shaved tail only just re-attached, a giant plastic collar and a drainage tube hanging out of one leg. And the vet is cheerily explaining cat bathing procedures.
Our chat went something like this:
Vet: Okay, watch closely.
Me: Um, do I have to?
Vet: If you don’t, you won’t know how to bathe the little darling
properly.
Me: That was the general idea.
Vet: Hold on to her while I show you.
Vet: Let’s try holding with more than two fingers, hmm.
Vet (sighing): And both hands.
Me (pale, eyes squeezed shut): Eep.
Vet: Right, you have to keep Bo indoors and bathe her twice a day by
lifting the tube here and here and moving it around here. Oh that spurt of
blood is norm... ma’am?
Me: Grrrk. (THUD).
The end of the story is highly over-rated. For example, the bit about
Bo bolting from the house and disappearing, at the exact moment my friend was ringing to find out how his baby was, is really hardly worth mentioning.
So is the part with her almost drowning in her waterbowl she was so drugged.
As is the bit with me flat on the floor, nose to nose, trying to convince
her she has so much to live for.
Suffice to say, the pussy is now fine, I’m in therapy and call Dr
Harry next time.
© Sheryl-Lee Kerr & The Advertiser, 25 JUL 2000