Dancing Fools Press

I am unpopular with Smokey.

I took her to the vet today for an x-ray - the appointment was for 09:00, meaning I had to get up at a sparrow’s fart. She didn’t like being put in the carrier.

They were very careful to explain to me that it involved a general anaesthetic and they could not guarantee that Smokey would survive. I said I understood and that at her age (she’s 19) I wouldn’t expect a heroic revival if anything happened.

As you can imagine, I have been on tenterhooks all day.

I got a call at quarter to four to tell me that she was ready to be picked up.

It turned out that the only thing the x-ray showed was swollen lymph nodes. So we are giving her at least a month’s rest from being dragged to the vet, and may then repeat her bloods. Someone on FB asked me if they have checked for pancreatitis, and yes, they have. They are as sure as they can be that it’s not that.

When I got her home, I opened her carrier and she ran up the stairs as if the hounds of hell were at her little furry heels. Poor cat!

Poor me, too. The doors to the poor house gape ever wider. X-raying a cat is not a cheap hobby. Neither are taxi fares x four. I may have to live on cheap biscuits and porridge.

I had a phone call from the DWP earlier today, to talk about my ongoing PIP review. We chatted for about an hour, with the annoying outcome that she’s going to refer me to an assessor.

I could totally live without that. When I asked how long it would take an assessor to get in touch, I was told that it could be “months”. Helpfully, I will be paid until a decision is made.