Unstitched

To the vet first thing, where he declared it looked like Isla has healed well (remarkable given she's had neither collar of shame, nor covering, as she freaked out a bit with both), the stitches could come out, the wound checked again and looking good. And home. 

She's been confined to quarters for a week and a bit after tearing a rather nasty hole in her chest on something unknown, and when I first opened the back door to let her out she just sat under the table, presumably expecting me to chase her back in if she tried to get out. Even stranger was popping her head inside the litter, rather than testing her regained freedom (she hates using the litter, she's got some psychological thing created from some time before we got her where she just can't go to the toilet indoors - to the extent a couple of times she snuck into the shed and got locked in for the day the first thing she's done on coming out is go to the toilet, because even a dark, damp, smelly shed counts as 'indoors').

But now everything seems to be back to normal. Or it will be once the fur grows back. She's been out and scent marked all the areas the other neighbourhood cats will have claimed as their own, and she's just immediately brighter.

Got out on the bike in the wind, inadvertently making it into Cigs' blip, picked Mel up from work, got in touch with a few recruitment agents, confirmed my tellybox thing for next Tuesday, and checked tram stop locations to see if a trip to the Gyle tomorrow will see my first use. Looks like it will. The excitement is hard to bear.

I'm feeling the need for some cathartic rantsplurge blips. You've been warned.