Trip to vet is bad for Steve but much worse for poor Bobbie
We had our cat spayed the other day. I feel slightly guilty putting an animal through this procedure. If a human unlawfully did this to another human we’d be locked up for life.
Other than having to go to Tesco for a big shop on Christmas Eve, there can be nothing worse than having your reproductive bits lopped off. Especially when you’d woken up that morning expecting nothing more than a bowl of Whiskas and a tummy tickle.
We had to drop the cat at the vets first thing. Mrs C complained she’d had to wait a bit and was in a bad mood, so I volunteered to pick it up.
When I arrived, the receptionists looked up as if surprised to see a human in front of them. ‘Hello,’ I said, ‘I’m here to collect my cat.’
They asked its name. ‘Bobbie,’ I told them. ‘Bobbie Canavan?’ the receptionist asked.
Supressing a slight smile, as I always find it odd to hear a cat given a surname I confirmed this was correct. Then I mentioned I had a form – thrust into my hand by Mrs C before I departed – which meant the procedure was free as we got 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 Bobbie off?’ she said. ‘I’m not sure as my wife did it,’ I replied.
The receptionists exchanged a glance and indicated that this involved them having to change the invoice on the computer system.
They asked me to take a seat, which I was very happy about because this is my favourite part of a vet visit. A variety of customers entered and I was able to have those glorious conversations that only ever happen at vets. They all wanted to tell me 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’.
About seven or eight people came in while I was there 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 nature, even I was starting to get perturbed by the length of time this was taking.
We’d been told to arrive any time after 2pm. It was now almost 4pm. So unless Bobbie 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 area trying to locate her, there was no reason for her not to be ready.
However, being English and afraid of being classed as impatient, I didn’t want to go and ask the receptionist if they’d forgotten, in case they thought me rude.
However, when it got to the 40-minute mark and all I could hear was the receptionist and two other staff members discussing the previous night’s Corrie, I decided – for once – to be bold.
I approached the desk and said: ‘I’m sorry to interrupt but I’m just checking you’ve not forgotten 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?’ I kind of admire that. Had I been her 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 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 Bobbie,’ I said through clenched teeth, before returning to the waiting area.
Less than 90 seconds later 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 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 limping around the house, while I am watching on iPlayer the Escape to the Country I missed.