A humorous look at bodily ills and daily woes, and tips from someone who has suffered everything from arthritis to athlete's foot.
Saturday, 2 June 2012
I know I'm not allowed in her room. She says it's because I might have fleas. That's so mean, especially as she puts this horrible sticky stuff on the back of my neck to kill off my hoppy little friends. She does it so sneakily, too. Pretends to stroke me so I get all relaxed and purry, then suddenly I am aware of a nasty pong and a horrid wet feeling on the back of my neck, so I dig all my claws into her legs very hard, jump off her lap and gallop through the cat flap, making sure it slams shut with a horrible clatter just to annoy her.
It was a hot evening and she had propped her door open. The familiar smell of HER came wafting out and there was this comfy looking bed and I thought if I hid behind her handbag, she just mightn't notice I was there and I could stay all night. I was just indulging in a little licking (well, there just might be the odd superflea lurking that's resistant to the neck goo) and was making such a loud splashing and munching sound that by the time I saw her standing in the doorway with THAT look on her face, it was too late. I'm in the doghouse again. Well, can't say the cat-house, can I?