Remember the little half drowned kitten I stumbled across, during a rain storm, and hid from David who has put a ban on any more legs coming into our home? 

Well, once he discovered the kitten, I assured him it would be no trouble at all, because cats aren’t. And then it somehow went a broke its leg. And lots of expensive vet visits followed. Back and forth to Nassau, three islands away.

Well Kitty’s cast was finally due to come off and the vet promised he was making a trip to our island, so no plane, train or automobile would be involved, the vet would come to us. And then he didn’t. And Kitty got an infestation of appalling fleas, so I washed Kitty, careful to wrap the broken leg in a plastic bag, yet a teeny dribble of water must have got into the cast and unbeknownst to us began to fester inside. 

Finally the vet arrived and the cast was removed. The broken leg had healed nicely but the paw was now rotting. Black and stinking. Injections followed, medicine three times a day and clean bandaging every other day.

“Good God, I am bored of this story” says Batman, our other cat. Which is nothing compared to what David is saying.