It's wicked to mock the afflicted

Observations of pets as I went to the vet

I took my cat to the vet the other day. I happily strolled beneath the clear blue sky of a London winter day carrying Cat in his plastic grey carrier. He silently watched and sniffed at the new surroundings beyond its wire door.

I became very excited to see a Border Collie driving a car, but then remembered the steering wheel is on the starboard side in this country.

I also noticed that there is one street corner where someone leaves their dog's bags of shit. That's the 'burbs for you. They don't want to be seen not picking up the shit of their animals—keeping up appearances and all that. So, they scoop that little hot turd into their plastic baggied hand and carry it off, but they still don't give a fuck about anyone. So, they look over both shoulders and drop it on the pavement to squelch beneath the £300 shoes of a jogger or wheel of a Bugaboo pram.

I get to the vet. Cat gets his check up. Cat is mellow. He's not fussed by much. Then it's thermometer time. The vet holds him. Cat is not amused but is abiding. Then temperature is taken. The cats eyes go wide. The ears go up. Then, I swear, he gets a beaten, humiliated look on his face. He looks disgusted. He can't believe his little cat ass and cat dignity had been violated. I apologised profusely when we left, but I fear his cat retribution will be swift and smell of ammonia.