As you can tell by the title of this post, it really was a great week. We got told on Tuesday morning that our previously lovely landlady wants to move back in. This is completely fair enough as it’s her prerogative but it now means I have more unwanted admin to sort therefore as a stroppy twat I’m annoyed at her. I’m already dreading packing boxes, cancelling bills, starting bills, changing address even learning the names of my new neighbours who we will not speak to. More than anything, the prospect of dealing with estate agents makes me want to be sick in bin. One rang me yesterday and this is exactly what he said, “hello Mr Martin, I think I have a flat for you…hang on you wanted a 3 bedroom flat…this is a 2 bedroom one…no worries…see you later”. Prick.
If I thought moving home was annoying then hearing that my 16-year-old cat needed to be put down was really annoying. By really annoying I mean heart breaking. This is a cat that has been fully knackered with heart disease and kidney failure for the last few years so we’d been expecting his death for a while. This meant I was happy to go with my massive dad to the vet for the inevitable. As soon as we both stepped into the vet’s office and she told us she was going to ‘terminate’ him, we both started crying like schoolgirls. I guarantee anyone would blub at this exact moment; with the exception of that woman who put a can in a bin, she’d probably do a little dance.
One thing I didn’t realise about this morbid process is you have to watch your pet die in front of your eyes, which is as horrific as it sounds. The other is that you have to pay the person to do it. I know this information is well known but something about turning a vet into the world’s crappest assassin seems weird to me. If you’re going to pay them to kill your pet at least make an effort: maybe sneak into my house dressed as a ninja and shoot him with a silencer. In tragedy therein lies moments of comedy and this situation was no different. When we walked out of the vet’s office there were two schoolgirls waiting to collect their dog. They looked so happy about the prospect of getting their healthy dog until they saw two grown men crying, holding an empty cat cage. It didn’t take Columbo to work out what had just happened: their faces dropped. It was like a wake up call to them about the real world, after seeing us their fixed dog was going to seem like nothing more than a panting parcel of inevitable sadness.
The funniest thing about this whole debacle was when me and the big man got back in his car we didn’t talk for 2 minutes. The silence was broken by me saying, ‘did you see those girls?” and my dad laughed and said, “yup, we totally ruined their weekend”. So the moral of this story is, if you’re feeling sad upsetting other people will make you feel better.
Also Arsenal made me cry by losing to Tottenham. Lots of crying this week.
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Our family cat of 15 years died in December last year. I was queuing for tickets at Sheffield train station when dad rang me up and told me. I got a few odd looks as I stood crying my eyes out… the other waiting passengers-to-be must have thought I really, really hated queues or something.
ReplyDeleteIt’s weird how a fairly silent creature who mostly sleeps, purrs, eats, craps and vomits can bring back so many fond memories. Dusty was there for me from the age of 14… it seemed weird that I managed to get to 29 before she finally passed away.
There’s still some speculation though as to when and where she died, as both me and my brother have both received conflicting stories from dad. So maybe he just gave her away to a friend and she’s still out there puking in a corner. But I doubt it.
Hope you feel better and sort out a new flat, dude.