Posting days: Sunday and Wednesday and, sometimes, maybe, extra ‘news flashes’

Wednesday September 6th 2017

Last week was not a merry one.

On Tuesday Doc explains the scan result: Human has torn a shoulder tendon across its width and displaced another tendon connecting to her biceps.

While she is awaiting surgery, she must wear a sling throughout the day.

It’s her right shoulder.

Yes, of course she’s right handed.

She begins to use her left hand for everything cat, dog and human. Even by Wednesday, her left hand is beginning to ache. Then her wrist swells and throbs.

At 1. 30 a.m she is lying in bed feeling decidedly sorry for herself when she imagines – it has to be imagination, please let it be imagination – she hears what sounds very similar to a little dog beginning to climb the stairs.

She couldn’t have forgotten to put the stair gate on.

Could she?

Yes, she could.

Someone pale and cautious creeps into the room.

And heads for the bottom of the bed, its usual access point.

I feel a rush of light kitty paws zooming towards the end of the bed.

HSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! Wowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwrrrrrrowuh!

Fffffffffffffffffffffffffffsssssssssssssssssssss!

Chunter, chunter.

Poor Isis scrambles out of the room as fast as her hairy legs can carry her.

Sigh.

I roll out of my bed and put a dog bed on the landing.

For an hour I try to think of a way of getting Isis downstairs. Then sad, half-stifled, little woofs are heard from the landing.

I roll out of bed again. (If anyone’s wondering why I roll, just try getting out of bed without using either hand or arm).

Hairy One is not in her dog bed. She is hunched uncomfortably on the boards looking very sad.

I bring the dog bed into the bedroom and place it on the floor by my side of the bed. After much cuddling and cajoling, I eventually persuade Isis to get onto it.

She remains there all night looking miserable and uneasy.

I stay awake until seven, worrying about getting Isis downstairs.

Daisy curls up into a smug kitty ball, happy in the knowledge that that pesky dog will not be bothering her again. She looks utterly relaxed. She doesn’t worry about anything at all.

In the morning, I sit at the top of the stairs and try to entice Isis to climb onto my lap. I plan to bottom shuffle down, clasping her. But she is terrified of falling downstairs and won’t approach me.

I try to pull her towards me, but my left hand screams with pain.

What a spectacle of misery we are.

What the hell can I do? All of my neighbours are even older and more decrepit than I am. Ironically, my friend A whom Isis trusts and whom she would allow to carry her down, has strained her left shoulder and is unable to drive.

There’s nothing else for it. I keep my upper right arm jammed against my body so I’ll not stretch the shoulder, and let my left hand hang limp. Then I shuffle both forearms under Isis like a fork lift truck and pin her against my chest.

We lurch slowly down the stairs.

She is a very good little dog. She stays statue still. She doesn’t move until her paws are just above the ground. She couldn’t have been more helpful, but there’s kickback as she leaves my arms.

Ouch.

Poor Isis. I am off to visit Polymath who is still in hospital in Wales. Isis will have to spend a few days at Hollytrees.

But not Daisy. Ray fears that at eighteen plus, on thyroid medication and not having stayed away from home since she was a kitten, Daisy could become dangerously stressed in the cattery.

So the naughty little creature gets to stay at home being looked after by lovely cat-sitter Emma.

Life’s not fair, is it Isis?

Isis came from the Aeza cat and dog rescue and adoption centre in Aljezur, Portugal. For information about adopting an animal from the centre, contact kerry@aeza.org or  www.dogwatchuk.co.uk