Hoppalong Cat

It's hard being a 17-year-old. Particularly when you have diabetes. And you're a cat. But it helps to have a good Mummy and Daddy (I call them Slaves - they're great at opening doors). And although I hate going to the vets, I strangely felt better after I got home. And I did get to meet Bríd and Linda and Kevin and Sarah (she was wearing a funny hat). There was another cat there, going in as I was going out. And he was making a fuss. Not like me. I'm one of their best patients (I think they mean honored guest), they say. I never hiss or lash out. Except when they clip my nails. Don't like that.

This time, I came home with this thing wrapped around my leg. It catches when I walk, particularly going up the stairs. And it makes getting in and out of boxes really hard (Female Slave came to the rescue, thankfully). First, they wouldn't let me out. And then, when they finally obeyed my orders, the front exit was blocked. What use is that? But then they gave me freshly-cooked chicken breast. Not the boring dry stuff. No even AD. It was so moist and tender. The real taste of chicken. Not organic though.

I heard them call me Hoppalong. Were they mocking me? Surely they wouldn't dare. Come to think of it, I remember Male Slave using that term for Female Slave a couple of years ago, so it's can't be bad. I think I'll just sleep for the afternoon now.