You've heard the old excuse "The dog ate my homework" - here we give you a new variant "Sorry, Miss, the cat ate my home/school book." Oops. Kindly ignore the hole in the floor; those responsible for fixing it seem to be managing it; such a shame it's not quite as easy for those of us left living with it.
I think it's safe to say Gotcha has found his confidence now; he shakes out his mane as he demands not just food and a clean litter tray these days but fuss, attention, cuddles, and someone to shake his toys for him.
I remain a little concerned however at the amount of time he spends online, and the sites he visits. Someone needs to tell him it really isn't his colour.
Meanwhile, poor Mog has been having a rotten day.
She woke up this morning rather stiff, so I dosed her up before trying to get her dressed (please excuse the outfit; she wasn't impressed but it's all loose and her arms weren't). And then tried to get her into her wheelchair. And realised I couldn't. She perched on the edge, sobbing, and then managed to plank herself into the position ably demonstrated here, where she promptly stuck for the next three hours. Pain and spasm and more pain, lots of wind and her left side locked tight and immobile. She fought off diazepam, until I added painkillers, at which point she finally subsided into some kind of peaceful sleep for an hour or so. I tried to de-kink her, and she woke immediately and started crying again. So much for that.
We eventually found a comfortable position; or rather, she eventually found a comfortable position. As this involved her lying face down on top of me, one of my legs wedged between hers to stop them twisting, and with her elbows propped on my shoulders, it wasn't exactly the most comfortable position for me. But, twenty minutes of it and she suddenly relaxed and flopped in against me.
Still no chance of getting her into her wheelchair, but she did at least de-kink herself enough to slump into her comfy chair.Physios, please avert your eyes; it was the straightest I could get her back without her hips locking again.
And suddenly, she was happy again. Needing to be burped every thirty minutes, but inbetween, giggling and kicking and wriggling and definitely out of pain again. Unless I tried to straighten her up. I realise though, this is the first day in a fortnight it's been just me here in the mornings. We've either had carers or I've had a friend here, and it has taken two of us to fold Mog into her wheelchair every day for the last two weeks. I don't think that can be good, can it?
Meanwhile, Little Fish had a party to go to. Except that she didn't want to. Why not? "Acos I don't want to." Many many tears until I finally agreed to phone the Birthday girls' Mum and send our apologies. Cue one very happy little girl who spent the day doing very little; trying to stroke Mog's feet to make her more comfortable, and practicing her writing. And that, with a little help from High School Musical, some multi-sensory additions from the other cats, and a rather tasty butterscotch pudding, is the essence of our day. Two girls are now sleeping - Mog wedged into a somewhat straightish position but with her head apparently attempting to inspect the back of her neck, and Little Fish wedged into a differently straight position with a soggy sleeve firmly planted in her mouth. The cats are prowling, begging or their last feed, and my back is feeling the after effects of wrestling with Mog's spasm. I'm off to bed.