Going under at the vets ......

Well, my paw’s better but what a can of worms it opened! Did she tell you what happened to my paw? No, I don’t suppose she did. Probably too busy. As you may know, I’m still under the vet (metaphorically speaking) since the Cassie incident which has scuppered any chances of female company ever again. And now? Now, I’ll be banned from playing ball, having ripped my nail off, as if the indignity of wearing that bright green boot thing on my foot wasn’t enough. And then they’re on to my teeth, talking about the contents of my ears as if I can’t hear them at all and discussing my innards as if they’re the Manager’s Special on the Meat and Fish Counter at Sainsbury’s. Of course, they’re a little past their best, I’m ninety-two for goodness’ sake. They’re going to do my teeth, a chest x-ray and flush out my ears but their hushed tones don’t fool me. I know that there’ll be no breakfast tomorrow morning. I know that they’re going to ‘get some fluids into me’ and this does not sound as civilised as I would like. I even heard mention of the fact that I might stay overnight. Mind you, those nurses are quite nice, I suppose. I’ll let you know how it goes.