It’s been a very trying week at Dyson Abbey with two cantankerous “olds” to look after. My Dad has to be one of the worst patients ever; I have already had to frogmarch him back from the allotment twice and have promised him that I will staple his hospital discharge papers to his forehead should I need to execute yet another search and rescue operation.
His boredom knows no bounds; he’s opened the washing machine mid cycle and flooded the kitchen allegedly looking for a towel. Trust me when I say that there are no shortages of my mother’s fluffed and pressed towels in this house so I’ll have to assume that he is still under the influence of the anaesthetic. He’s constantly roaming the house like a caged animal, locking doors, switching off lights and just generally tormenting my mother who’s still laid up with a broken leg.
He managed to drag me for a walk to the cemetery today in sub-zero temperatures on the grounds that I need to get out more! He assured me that according to the local weather forecast, it would be cold with sunny spells and I should probably wear some sunscreen; whilst we walked, it started sleeting!
Chloe the infamous Koi Carp Thief has had to have various trips to the vets as she now has been losing her fur so much so we have now renamed her Bald Monkey Bum. After all sorts of costly injections and tests, the vet has now established it’s stress and prescribed Valium. Should I find myself in the carer role for much longer, I will no doubt be sneaking some of her medication; after all it can’t be all that stressful when the biggest decision of the day is which lap to sleep on! Last year I mistook Hobo’s worming tablets for vitamins, fortunately, there were no obvious side effects and disappointingly, I didn’t acquire cat-like reflexes overnight either, however, my ability to sleep in trees has now become the stuff of legends. I had hoped to have captured a photograph of said bald arse for the post but she’s not been very obliging; and my mother declined to have her picture taken either!
My mother is insisting that I cook Bald Monkey Bum, fresh chicken and fish every day and when I do sneak in the occasional packet of cat food, it’s sniffed with disdain and discarded immediately with a pathetic mewl that suggests she only wants the good stuff. However, as some of the gourmet cat food bears an uncanny resemblance to French pate and as I am a student of the Bette Davis School of Nursing, I have become sorely tempted to make amendments to my parents’ dietary requirements.
More whine with that French Bread & Pate?