POINTS OF VIEW A trip to the vet is painful for Steve – but on balance, it’s worse for Bobby, the family cat
We had our cat spayed the other day. I feel slightly guilty putting an animal through this procedure. I mean if a human unlawfully did this to another human we’d be locked up for life.
Other than having to go to a Tesco supermarket for a big shop on the Saturday before Christmas, there can be nothing worse in life than having your reproductive bits lopped off. Especially when you’d woken up that morning expecting nothing more than a fresh bowl of Whiskas and a tickle on the tummy.
We had to drop the cat at the vets first thing. Mrs Canavan complained she’d had to wait a bit and was in a bad mood on her return, so I volunteered to pick it up.
When I arrived, the receptionists looked up as if surprised to see a fellow human in front of them, which was slightly offputting and made me wonder if I had an unsightly wart on my face. ‘Hello,’ I said, ‘I’m here to collect my cat.’
They asked its name.
‘Bobby,’ I told them (it was the choice of my three-year-old daughter, who clearly has a penchant for balding Manchester United and England strikers of the 1960s).
‘Bobby Canavan?’ the receptionist asked.
Supressing a slight smile, as I always find it odd to hear a cat given a surname – as if it’s some kind of blood relative – I confirmed this was correct.
Then I mentioned I had a form – thrust into my hand by Mrs Canavan before I departed – which basically meant the procedure was free of charge on account of us getting the kitten from a particular charity.
This seemed to be an issue because the receptionist raised her eyes and sighed. ‘Did you mention this when you dropped Bobby off?’ she said.
‘I’m not sure as my wife did it,’ I replied.
The receptionists exchanged a glance – making me feel a little like a schoolboy getting told off for calling Jennifer Gibbons a rude name at lunchtime – and indicated, I think, though I’m not entirely sure because they didn’t really communicate it, that this involved them having to change the invoice on the computer system.
They asked me to take a seat, which I was initially very happy about because this is my favourite part of a vet visit.
A variety of customers entered and I was able to partake in those glorious conversations that only ever happen at the vets. It’s like being with a group of mums with new-born babies, in that they all want to tell you about their pet.
I learned about Edith, a small dog who was having a leg operation after being clipped by a Ford Fiesta. Then there was Bella the cat, who was attached to a drip. I asked why. Her owner leaned over and whispered: ‘She’s projectile vomiting and suffering terrible diarrhoea. It’s been coming out sideways’. I fixed my face into what I thought the appropriate grimace and nodded.
About seven or eight people came in the surgery while I was there – including a chap clutching Eric the tortoise – and they all got served, then either dropped off or picked up their pets and disappeared.
By this time I’d been there half an hour and despite generally possessing a sunny, happy-golucky nature, even I was starting to get slightly perturbed by the length of time this visit was taking.
I mean all I’d come to do was pick up a cat. We’d been told to arrive any time after 2pm. It was now almost 4pm. So unless Bobby had jumped off the operating table midway through the procedure shrieking ‘no way are you going near my ovaries’, hurtled out the door, and a crack team of animal detectives were now scouring the surrounding area trying to locate her, there was no reason for her not to be ready and waiting to go.
However, being English and afraid of ever being classed as impatient, I didn’t really want to go and ask the receptionist if they’d forgotten, in case they thought me rude. (Plus I’m also very aware I write this column and didn’t want them to go home later that evening saying: ‘Oh I met that Steve Canavan – you know the lad with big ears who writes for the local paper? – and ooh, he’s so rude in real life’.
However, when it got to the 40-minute mark and all I could hear was the receptionist and two other members of staff discussing the plot-line of the previous night’s Coronation Street, I decided – for once – to be bold.
I hesitantly approached the desk and said: ‘I’m very sorry to interrupt but I’m just checking you’ve not forgot about the cat I came to collect?’
The receptionist looked at me – as if I were a distant family relation she couldn’t quite place – and replied: ‘I have forgotten. What was its name again?’
Now, I kind of admire that. I think had I been in her position I’d have tried to blag it and say: ‘No, of course not – what was your name again sir?’ – and gone from there.
But although her honestly was admirable, I have to confess I wasn’t best impressed, especially because by now there was no way I was going to make it home for the end of Escape to the Country.
‘It’s Bobby,’ I said through slightly clenched teeth, before returning to the waiting area.
Less than 90 seconds later – presumably how long it would have taken had it not been forgotten about 40 minutes earlier – a very nice young vet emerged from a side room clutching a cat carrier, inside which was a slightly shaken and wide-eyed looking Bobbie.
I was still slightly annoyed as I climbed in the car but then realised that, hey, having to wait a short while was really nothing compared to having your uterus removed without consent.
Bobbie is now forlornly limping around the house, while I am watching the Escape to the Country I missed on iPlayer.
I always find it odd to hear a cat given a surname – as if it’s some kind of blood relative