Things that go bump on the knee


Wednesday night and the Boy and I are on the sofa. He’s sleeping as though he’s spent the day cleaning the flat from top to bottom (he hasn’t, there are paw prints on the windowsill and other things I’m not mentioning). I’m watching 24Hours in A&E and enjoying the human interest stories while admiring the wonderful professionalism and compassion of our NHS staff. People’s resilience is astounding.

I’ve got my left leg elevated after an accident that fortunately has not required a trip to A&E. One moment I was hurrying along the pavement wanting to get to the bank before I started work, the next I was sprawled on my face in the dust. A slightly raised paving slab and my failure to notice it were to blame. ‘Are you alright?’ said a concerned voice. ‘I don’t know yet,’ I answered, resisting the urge to get to my feet immediately and recover my dignity while I tentatively checked with my various parts to see if they were all still attached. They seemed to be, so I got to my knees, then to my feet. And oh the relief, my trousers were intact. I was expecting a jagged tear across the left knee which seemed to have taken the force of the fall. No grazes on my hands either. My sunglasses still on my nose. Hurrah! Continue reading

Limping Ginger

MasterB is under the weather. He went out a happy healthy boy last night, and came in a quiet limping ginger.
All he wanted to do was to get to bed, and being examined by me wasn’t on his wish list. I let him sleep, having seen no obvious injuries. He moved about in the night; sofa, his bed, sofa, his bed again. He seemed happy enough this morning, lying on his back, but not hungry. I had a telephone consultation with a vet nurse. Actually I had already had a telephone consultation with another vet nurse last night. Somewhat reassured I set off for work, a niggling worry in my mind that he had been hit by a car.
In the garden I discovered the cause of his injury: a fight. His collar lay among a pile of fur, mostly grey I was pleased to note, only a little bit of ginger fluff in there.
I put the collar in my bag, left the fur where it was, headed for the bus, and another telephone consultation with the second vet nurse.
The thing is, and I may have mentioned this before, MasterB is not a natural fighter. Cat loved a scrap. Intimidating other cats out of the garden, and getting his teeth and claws stuck in to any foolish enough to challenge him, was a daily pleasure. For most of his life, a day without a fight was a day wasted.
Not so MasterB.
He has tended to be friendly to other cats, and upset and surprised when his amicable overtures have met with hisses and unsheathed claws. About a year ago, it seemed to occur to him that he ought to learn to fight. He wasn’t very good at it.

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