.
It is well known that I am the original ‘Mr Squeamish’ in my family and cannot bear the sight of blood, discussions about people’s medical problems and the operations they have had, and cannot even look at the needle when I’m having a blood test.
I detest also those television programmes about ‘nature’ in which animals are seen hunting down and eating other animals. It’s enough for me to know that a wild animal has to hunt for its dinner but I don’t see why it is necessary for so many programmes to show in graphic and tedious detail the bloody processes involved.
There was a documentary the other night about the work of the ‘bionic vet’, Noel Fitzpatrick, who is pioneering new techniques to save the lives of injured animals. I couldn’t watch the programme for obvious reasons, but it was interesting for me to read about his amazing work and the artificial legs he gave to that lovely black cat, Oscar.
Reading about Oscar made me think about the four cats we have been slaves to over the years (we have, bye the bye, been slaves to eight dogs also). They were Smokey, Henry, Ginger and Spike.
I saw Smokey, more of which later on, as a kitten in a shop window. Henry was the son of my sister’s cat and was definitely ‘mine’. He must have had a bit of Siamese in him for he would sit on my shoulder and I could have a conversation with him. Alas, he contracted a virus and had to be put to sleep (I hate that term ‘put down’!). Ginger came from an animal rescue centre and turned out to be a roamer and for years shared himself with another household half a mile away. He loved crossing a major road to visit our local nature reserve and one time was rescued from the top of a tree by the fire brigade after a call from a concerned walker. Spike was spotted by my wife in our local veterinary surgery having been bought in to be put to sleep because he was so unruly. He was probably part-ferule and was certainly a handful. He would sit on our neighbour’s garage roof underneath the ivy and wait for the birds or a stupid cat to come by before pouncing on them. He couldn’t stand me one bit though, after I returned home from living abroad for four years, he decided I was friendly after all and to everyone’s surprise became quite affectionate towards me.
Anyhow, to return to Smokey. Forty years ago on a sunny afternoon I took our two sons out in their pram for a walk. As I passed our local dirty book shop my eyes were drawn to a sign which announced ‘Good Homes Wanted For Kittens’. It would be a waste of time to convince anyone that my eyes were not drawn to the saucy magazines on display but, in a basket beneath the sign, were half a dozen mewing kittens and I thought it would be nice to have a cat in the house. My wife approved of the idea of having a pet and the next day I went back to the shop and selected one which we called Smokey. Smokey was a lovely house cat and lived for many years. Her favourite indoor perch was on top of the television and, now and again, she would go into a deep sleep and fall off. Other times her tail would fall in front of the screen and one of us would have to reposition her so that we could watch a programme without a large furry tail interfering with the picture.
We lived next door at the time to an elderly couple who were very nice and with whom we got on very well. The lady of the house was, however, a terrible snob. As Smokey grew more adventurous she started to explore the garden and, inevitably, the other gardens nearby. I prayed that the lady next door would ask me the question that inevitably she did. ‘What a lovely cat, Mr MacDonald. Wherever did you get it?’ she enquired one afternoon. ‘From the dirty book shop in the London Road,’ I truthfully responded.
The cat was never mentioned again!
.
It is well known that I am the original ‘Mr Squeamish’ in my family and cannot bear the sight of blood, discussions about people’s medical problems and the operations they have had, and cannot even look at the needle when I’m having a blood test.
I detest also those television programmes about ‘nature’ in which animals are seen hunting down and eating other animals. It’s enough for me to know that a wild animal has to hunt for its dinner but I don’t see why it is necessary for so many programmes to show in graphic and tedious detail the bloody processes involved.
There was a documentary the other night about the work of the ‘bionic vet’, Noel Fitzpatrick, who is pioneering new techniques to save the lives of injured animals. I couldn’t watch the programme for obvious reasons, but it was interesting for me to read about his amazing work and the artificial legs he gave to that lovely black cat, Oscar.
Reading about Oscar made me think about the four cats we have been slaves to over the years (we have, bye the bye, been slaves to eight dogs also). They were Smokey, Henry, Ginger and Spike.
I saw Smokey, more of which later on, as a kitten in a shop window. Henry was the son of my sister’s cat and was definitely ‘mine’. He must have had a bit of Siamese in him for he would sit on my shoulder and I could have a conversation with him. Alas, he contracted a virus and had to be put to sleep (I hate that term ‘put down’!). Ginger came from an animal rescue centre and turned out to be a roamer and for years shared himself with another household half a mile away. He loved crossing a major road to visit our local nature reserve and one time was rescued from the top of a tree by the fire brigade after a call from a concerned walker. Spike was spotted by my wife in our local veterinary surgery having been bought in to be put to sleep because he was so unruly. He was probably part-ferule and was certainly a handful. He would sit on our neighbour’s garage roof underneath the ivy and wait for the birds or a stupid cat to come by before pouncing on them. He couldn’t stand me one bit though, after I returned home from living abroad for four years, he decided I was friendly after all and to everyone’s surprise became quite affectionate towards me.
Anyhow, to return to Smokey. Forty years ago on a sunny afternoon I took our two sons out in their pram for a walk. As I passed our local dirty book shop my eyes were drawn to a sign which announced ‘Good Homes Wanted For Kittens’. It would be a waste of time to convince anyone that my eyes were not drawn to the saucy magazines on display but, in a basket beneath the sign, were half a dozen mewing kittens and I thought it would be nice to have a cat in the house. My wife approved of the idea of having a pet and the next day I went back to the shop and selected one which we called Smokey. Smokey was a lovely house cat and lived for many years. Her favourite indoor perch was on top of the television and, now and again, she would go into a deep sleep and fall off. Other times her tail would fall in front of the screen and one of us would have to reposition her so that we could watch a programme without a large furry tail interfering with the picture.
We lived next door at the time to an elderly couple who were very nice and with whom we got on very well. The lady of the house was, however, a terrible snob. As Smokey grew more adventurous she started to explore the garden and, inevitably, the other gardens nearby. I prayed that the lady next door would ask me the question that inevitably she did. ‘What a lovely cat, Mr MacDonald. Wherever did you get it?’ she enquired one afternoon. ‘From the dirty book shop in the London Road,’ I truthfully responded.
The cat was never mentioned again!
.
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