I’m not a fan of animals – I can handle Pinky Dinky Doo, the pink escapologist hamster that belongs to Monkey. I can just about handle going to the zoo. But a kitten (which will turn into a cat (which will turn into a hungry cat that will want to do adult cat things (which will either turn into more cats or massive vet bills)))? Not a fan, as Facebook would put it.
But we got a kitten following Harry Asbo – a cat who was so short lived in our house as he came, stayed and returned to the cat sanctuary – because MBW wanted one. Don’t know how – I think MBW’s friend’s uncle’s cat had some, free to a good home – a good home being defined as anyone who doesn’t actually run a taxidermy or fur clothing business.
So, along came Bynx. Not my choice of name – I wanted to call her Tyler so that the Pinky Dinky Doo thing was complete, but she does make a little “binka-binka-binka” sound as she runs along, so I’ll live with the name. That is not my gripe.
My gripe is that, through no fault of MBW’s friend I have to stress, it was not her fault, the cat came with fleas. Actually, the cat, which is charging around like a loonie at the moment probably also came with a few loose screws too, but more of that in a minute. Because Bynx had taken a liking to our bedroom deep-pile carpet, I now need to get shot of it – ching! £200 for laminate flooring.
So far, the mad fur ball who has just come chhhaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrging through into the living room, ran around in a large circle and then slide on the floor into the sofa in a way that would make an ice skater proud, the flea bag has cost me £240.
So, the reason for this post? No reason – I just wanted a whinge!