Why I'm on medication

It all started last Sunday... The people who live with me had gone out for the day, leaving me at home all on my ownsome. I don't have any problem with that, since I've got my cat-flap and go and pee outside whenever I want.

But last Sunday, the neighbours were having a party. I hate people. To be honest, I don't much like cats either. Or dogs. Mostly, in short, I don't really like any living organism that I can't kill, toy with, and/or eat. But the people who live with me are okay, usually...

So, there's this big party going on next door (for the full horror details, click here), and I need to go pee. But I can't. Y'know, cos there's people. And they're singing terrible karaoke songs in their horribly screechy voices. And there's lots of shouting. And children. And if there's one thing I hate more than people, it's children. And if there's one thing I hate more than children, it's noisy children. So you can appreciate my predicament.

So I wait.

But still it goes on.

And I wait some more.

Meanwhile, they continue.

"Maybe I ought to use my litter tray," I think. I go and sniff it. Smells okay. "Yeah, but I'd prefer to go outside. I'll give it another five minutes."

... "And five more."

Anyway, the long and short of it is that by the time the people who live with me came home, I had used the litter tray. Out of sheer desperation. And, I fear, somewhat too late. I heard the male person exclaim something like, "That clump of piss is the size of his head!" I didn't find that funny. And I'll tell you why.

In my determination to pee only outside, and therefore in waiting so long to finally use the litter, I did myself something of a mischief. My "waterworks" began to hurt.

More than that, whenever I had the tiniest, teeniest, most minute amount of pee in my bladder, I felt compelled to expel.

It got so bad that eventually I had to start telling the people who live with me that they'd best take me to the vet. But they're not the sharpest tools in the box. They bang on about how they can speak English and Italian, but they can't even understand their own landlord (me).

I tried telling them quickly at first: "Take me to the vet." Then slowly. Then loudly. You know, the way you try to order beer in Spain without speaking Spanish? But no, they just didn't get it.

I think the thing that finally made it click into place for them was me going and sitting on my litter tray and MIAOWING REAL LOUD. That seemed to get the message across.

Anyway, yada yada yada, the vet sticks me with a needle and gives the people a bunch of antibiotics. And that's where we're at right now: twice a day the male one grabs me and tries to sling a pink tablet down my throat. I heard the vet tell him that they're palatable. Yeah, sure they are -- if you have no damn taste buds!

It's got so that I can hardly come into the house without being scruffed and manhandled. Still, only one more day to go, apparently...