I TOOK my cat for the snip yesterday.
Despite my best efforts to keep him in the dark beforehand, I knew he was on to me.
It began the night before when - due to the nil by mouth after 7pm rule, imposed by the vet - I gave him his dinner earlier than normal. He cocked his head suspiciously, but chose to let it go and munched down his favourite lamb dish.
The next morning I didn’t feed him his breakfast and now he knew something was up, but still he let it slide. His face as I gave him an extra long cuddle before leaving for work told me he was tired of playing these games and gave me one last chance to ’fess up. But I didn’t crumble. I’d held out this long after all.
As he waved me off from the window as normal, there was a definite reluctance to the gesture on his part.
I thought about the poor little sod all day and when I finally got home that night, I found him curled up on the settee between his grandparents. He wouldn’t meet my eye.
I gingerly lowered my head into the white plastic cone around his neck, to plant a kiss on his furry little head.
As I pulled away there was no mistaking the look in his narrowed eyes.
“I knew it...”