Time to relax

Mystère slept all night tucked in between us, and he was  looking a little better in the morning, albeit still wobbly. He ate, drank, and used his litter tray, so that was all promising.

The vet had told me to bring Mystère back on Monday afternoon if he still had symptoms though, so I did.  It was rather busy and we had to wait a while; luckily there were only cats in the waiting room. The surgery has three resident cats who wandered in and out, coming to say hello to the waiting patients; when we went into the consulting room one of them was curled up asleep in the sun on the windowsill. 

I told the vet Mystère still couldn't walk properly. She checked his eyes and said they were looking better. But she probably thinks I’m a raging hypochondriac by proxy now, because when she put him on the floor to test his walking ability, having neglected to fully close the door, he rushed clumsily round the room looking for the exit, while she lunged for the door to close it before he got there. 

She did an ultrasound scan, popped a pill into his mouth with devastating ease using tweezers, and gave us the rest of the medication for us to administer ourselves. So I bought more of the very expensive cat food to help it down.  Perhaps it was unnecessary to go back today, but I felt better for it anyway. And the vet only charged us for the medication.

Back home to recover, and we reckoned we'd earned our aperos. So we put Mystère to bed, sat on the terrace in the evening sunshine, and somehow got through a whole bottle of wine. No, not two as the photo implies, one of them is just the end of the one we opened last night.

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