Another month, another – non-skiing – vet, another blood test, another large bill. “We think he’s got a kidney problem (as well?). Please can you provide a urine sample…”

Do they have any idea of the difficulty in getting a urine sample from an outdoor cat?

They make a special kit, it would appear. Just (just!) replace kitty’s normal cat litter with thiss pack of special non-absorbent plastic beads, then afterwards use the supplied pipette and sample jar. And we’d like it as fresh as possible… Yeah. Right.

Locking the cat flap at crack of sparrows and showing Sir the location of his private daytime bathroom facilities elicited a baleful stare. Proper morning dawned bright and grumpy, but no sample. Lunchtime and Sir was pacing up and down cross-legged. Late afternoon he was growling, and hissing if he was picked up and shown his litter tray. As the time came when it would be too late to get anything to the vet’s surgery that day, we relented, and quietly opened the back door. There’s clearly nothing wrong with his hearing, and reaching Mach 2.1 crossing the threshold, he dived for the nearest patch of earth; without further ado he performed with a quantity and duration that would have done a large horse proud. Then nonchalantly strolled back in and stuffed his nose in his food bowl.

Needing the human bathroom at 5am the next morning, a bleary eyed check showed that Sir had decided at long last to cooperate in his own inimitable manner. And so, it transpired he had a kidney infection. Antibiotics for a change. Cheap at twice the price…

And so, as we approach the time for us to depart on Sir’s summer cruise, another shave, another blood test, confirmation that Biggles has lost quite a lot of weight, and as well as pancreatitis has chronic kidney disease. The latter’s absolutely no surprise with a cat of his age, and given the availability of these new tests for the former, that may not be a surprise either. Deciding that the kidney problem is more serious, Sir is now on a different special diet, supplemented by some medicine that costs only marginally less than a month than an MP secretes away in the British Virgin Islands bank account. He’s been told to enjoy himself, and come back for another shave and large bill in three months. He’s still more or less his normal self, just maybe a bit peaky.

“But what about his MoT and Booster jabs”, we asked.

“That’s the least of his problems… at his age I shouldn’t worry about that unless you’re taking him abroad…”

So, second mortgage notwithstanding, a decidedly moth-eaten Biggles is boat-ward bound again, even if the canals do sometimes feel like a different world. With the increasing decrepitude of his crew, we should make a fine team!

This post was nearly entitled Denillanne Bigglesworth is Unwell… one of the reasons for the paucity of posts over the winter is that – like the journalist Jeffrey Barnard – Biggles has been somewhat indisposed since returning to his winter quarters in October. The other title that came to mind was Abscess Makes The Heart Grow Fonder but that’s probably in poor taste.

As if finding discover a young oik had moved in next door and was laying claim to his back garden wasn’t insult enough, heading off for his annual MoT test while looking a bit peaky and off his food was definitely injury… the Vet took one look at him, went into Stanley Holloway mode and said “My word you do look queer!” Shaved his neck to take some blood, and sent him packing with a large bill and no MoT. Rang back a day or to later and said “we think he’s got pancreatitis, but need to do another, special new (read especially expensive), blood test”. This one showed he had got a bad dose of pancreatitis even though he wasn’t showing anything much in the way of symptoms (most moggies with pancreatitis appear to be at death’s door, it seems). “Put him on a special diet and bring him back for another test in a month, and in the meantime here’s another big bill”.

A month of the special diet clearly did something: he’d plucked up courage for a serious territorial duel with another local cat, and despite his second’s best efforts at running repairs, had developed a large abscess on his neck; he was more pus than puss: yet more shaved bits.  The second special blood test result had his vet scratching her head… the path-lab assured us her that “no, their kit wasn’t broken, but they weren’t entirely sure what Biggles was doing still alive and kicking”. (I recall a similar reaction when my dear mother provided a urine sample in an unwashed Guinness bottle).

So… off to the pussy hospital for an ultrasound scan. A shaved belly, an anaesthetic, a huge bill, and “you’ll be glad to know we couldn’t find anything sinister or wrong with his plumbing”. Thinking he might be in pain, painkillers were prescribed. All very weird: the stuff was an opiate concoction designed for two or three days post-op injections: Biggles took it orally for a fortnight – no mention of that on the data sheet or interweb. And, while possibly making him a junky, it didn’t seem to make much difference – he behaved exactly the same even though his eyes were a bit glazed. Still moth-eaten, still no jabs or MoT, though.

Meanwhile, enjoying the proceeds of Biggles’ apparent discomfiture, the Vet went skiing  and broke her knee.