Friday, September 26, 2008
We've survived our first trip to the vet. Florence is in a lot better shape than I am. The bloody animal has such good manners she even walked into the pet carrier by herself and only mewed with quiet embarrassment whenever the taxi driver fumbled a gear change.
Our vet is called called Emma, and uses a standard of address that I shall immediately apply to all future relationships. She addressed relentless cheeriness to Florence (who wandered happily around the surgery), laced with sugary barbed comments about me. The killing blow was when Florence was weighed. She's put on a kilo in three weeks.
"Well," gushed Emma, "Someone has daddy wrapped around her little finger!"
Daddy? There's a whole horror to that I don't want to go into. Shamed, I left without a murmur.
I'm not even going to bother telling Lee. I know his response: "It's like all your relationships. You pray they'll get too fat to run away."