I know when I tell her I have a
cat with a broken leg and have done my own diagnosis rather than consult a vet
she’ll be snaky. And she is. Citing all the evidence to suggest that a vet
visit is a waste of time, energy and money gets me nowhere. As expected. I
should have told her the cat was a picture of health.
Later in the afternoon my message
bank and voicemail fill with urgent pleas to ring her. She’s spoken with my
sister and my niece, a veterinary nurse, and exhorts me to get the cat fixed.
In what way ‘fixed’, I ask. She equates a visit to the vet with being fixed. I
tell her the cat just needs to be contained and rest, as is the case.
The conversation gets a bit
testy: she’s annoyed and so am I. I feel put upon, and after five weeks of
being unrelentingly put upon by my employer and life in general, I’m mad as
hell and not about to take any more.
My mother anthropomorphises
animals. They’re little humans to her, substitute children. They get rushed to
the vet if they so much as squeak. I’m sure my mother has the pet equivalent of
Munchausen Syndrome by proxy. Only my mother’s Persian cat could look pale.
Only my mother’s poodle could have gallstones.
I’m pretty sure my cat has a
broken leg. There’s no evidence of swelling or a bite, no displacement of
bones, no discomfort when I squeeze the sore limb. I’m also sure that he just
needs to minimise walking, lie down a lot, and not jump fences. I’m fairly sure
he has more sense than my mother when it comes to his own health.
Unfortunately I don’t have his
good sense when it comes to my relationship with my mother. I should have
stayed mum about the cat’s bloody leg.
Rock on.
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