Wee girl Millie on way back
The great quotes of history become part of our common vocabulary, resonating down through the years, passed on from generation to generation.
Who could forget them? There’s:
“We will fight them on the beaches …”
“I have a dream …”
“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers …”
And then there’s: “The central heating broke down. I had to light the oven and hold my pussy in front.” (Mrs Slocombe, Grace Bros employee.)
To these must be added another line, the utterance of which turned my week on its head.
I was looking out at the M6, baffled by an editorial training session involving techie stuff, when I took the call and heard the phrase: “Millie has done a wee.”
Oh, yes. She’s continent – and she’s back. Sort of.
To those who missed last week’s column, I should explain that Millie, our black-and-white moggie, was at death’s door after being mown down while darting across a road. The prognosis was bleak. Would she live? Would she walk? Would she widdle?
Astonishingly, Millie’s veterinary team is now “cautiously optimistic,” especially since she reacquainted herself with the purpose of a litter tray. I have bored colleagues with updates on the cat’s urinary tract and general rehabilitation – although, in fairness, it has been impossible to walk through the newsroom without someone asking about Millie.
I have found myself rushing into meetings and exclaiming in front of strangers: “She wee-ed! Millie’s done a wee! An actual wee!” I have then had to explain that I am talking about my injured cat, not a mad bag lady in the corridor.
I have been genuinely moved by people’s expressions of goodwill. I have received touching emails from concerned readers and been inundated with inquiries from co-workers, often from people who I suspect wouldn’t give a hoot if I walked under a bus. I can’t blame them. The cat is far better-looking than me, and generally likeable.
So likeable, in fact, that I have been feeding her from a spoon. A spoon! I put kitchen paper under her chinny-chin-chin like a napkin, feed her like a baby and then wrap her in blankets, like a dear old granny.
I have cooked giblets from the chicken with an impromptu bouquet garni – my take on Delia/Nigella fusion gravy. I never bother doing this fancy cuisine for fellow humans, not even at Christmas.
You know what? Millie didn’t touch it, barely a haughty sniff of my slow-cooked, flavour-infused chicken neck.
I was furious, downright furious. So what did I say to the fussy cat? I said: “Never mind, ’ittle kitty-witty. Daddy-Daddy get you something yum yum instead. Who’s a good girl? Yes you are, yes you are.”
The whole thing is completely potty and I promise I will not write about any of this self-indulgent cat nonsense again.
Next week: My agony as pet stick insect battles depression.
