The fat bruiser next door
Having packed her bags, and even arranged for a chauffeur driven car, we've sent the cat off on her holidays.

Well, we put her in her carry cage and drove her to the cattery (which is the same thing). Funnily, she was happy to walk straight into her cage this morning, which was definitely a good thing, as the thought of trying to cajole her into the cage, and then get her to the cattery on time, and then get to work 20 miles away before 9 am wasn't appealing. Apparently all it took was a pillowcase that smelt of us, and she shot inside the box! We live and learn.

Anyway, I arrived at the cattery and was immediately impressed by the number of country types in their matching red sweaters and obligatory green wellies. Funnily they all appear to be women. Do men ever work in catteries/kennels? The only animal job that I know blokes do is become vets – all the less glamorous (or should that be less well paid – I not sure there is any glamour in shoving your hand up a cow's arse) animal jobs seem to all be done by women: usually small middle-aged women with clipboards, or young gals who look like they have never had a roll in the hay with a young farmhand. (Not that I have, you understand – what with not being a young gal for a start.)

Anyway, the cat (in box) and I are lead into a large barn that says Cattery on the outside, and once we are through the gate it opens up like an aerial view of a PoW camp – all wire and wood, with each animal confined to a cage. Obviously I wouldn't want to spend my days cooped up in a tiny cage – but then we have a tiny cat, so what seems small to me is actually quite big compared to her.

Anyway, the clipboard carrying woman leads us through Stalag Cat until we reach cage 17, and the bolt is withdrawn, and the door opened, to allow Cleo access to her temporary home.

I open the door to the carry basket, and tentatively she sticks her nose out, before slowly starting to explore her new holiday home. I leave the cushion she travelled on, together with pillow case – hopefully to remind her of us, and watch as the door is closed. I resist the temptation to begin the monologue that sounded at the start of every episode of Porridge (Interesting fact for you – it was done by Ronnie Barker), and slowly leave Cleo to get acquainted with the fat bruiser next door and head off into the sunset.

She's only there for a few days, and unless she manages to trade the bell on her collar for a Rock Hammer and a poster of Rita Hayworth I'm confident she'll be there when we go to collect her.
- posted by Paul @ 11:49 am