It’s that kind of day.

Guys, it’s roughly nine in the morning, and I’ve had the longest day already. I’m about ready to go curl up in a ball under a fuzzy blanket. On on my couch with the most recent season on Doctor Who. Or I’m ready to be sitting in my stick garden imaging how pretty my roses will be. Or wandering along a chilly beach trying to spot seals and penguins. Basically, I’m about ready to be anywhere EXCEPT strapped to a computer chair at work.

At 12:15am this morning, I was awoken by the most god awful screaming. Naturally, being the horror movie cliché that I am, I pull a robe on over my scantily clad self, grab a torch, and venture out into the paddocks next to my house: NOT because I’m trying to get myself killed by axe murderers, but because I recognise that it’s my cat screaming.

At 12:30am in the morning I admit that wandering through the countryside in a robe with no shoes is a stupid thing to do, so I turn around and head home. Batz-less. And despite what anyone tells you I was not crying like a big baby. Not even a little bit.

When I get home, wet and cold, and a tiny bit sniffly (Obvs. not because I’m crying, just, I might have a cold.) I find Batz sitting on the cream carpet. Or, a formerly cream carpet, because now it’s cream and cat blood. Have I mentioned yet that I do not have high hopes of my landlord giving me all of my bond back? Between the hair dye splashes on the wall that I found, my accidental fire record, and now the cat blood in the lounge… Well that bond is on shaky ground.  

I’m not so great with blood (as we all know) so at this point I have a really tough choice: faint, vomit, or bawl like a scared baby?

I thought I was getting better with blood, but it turns out that I’m  just getting better at dealing with TKD blood, because there are always first aiders around, and it’s usually just a bloody nose or something. It helps that I have first aid now, so I know what to do – the element of uncertainty is not my friend when someone else is hurt.

When it comes to animals, I do not have my First Aid for MentalCase Animals certificate. If I did I would have felt better, because I would have known what to do. In the end I just did what I do with stressed animals at the SPCA.

Once everyone had calmed down (Ok. Just me. Once I had calmed down) I realised that it was just a cut on his leg that was bleeding. There always looks like there is a lot of blood when it comes to this stuff because it’s shocking and red (and on my landlords cream carpet. Oh god.) but actually it was probably not that much at all. It stopped bleeding without any issue, and the cat was freaked out, and cold, but fine.

Just for the record: that is the absolute last time I let him out to play at night. We’re apparently surrounded by territorial cats, and axe murderers.

6:00 am this morning I had to drag myself out of bed, which, thank god, is not covered in cat blood like the nightmare I had at 5am, and get the cat in his carrier. We had a scheduled visit with the vet for a skin biopsy. My cat does not like the carrier. Not even a little bit. Not even at all. By the time I was done we were both sweating, and one of us was licking new wounds (hint: it wasn’t Batz.)

Then I have to dig through my suitcase of rumpled clothing (I plan on upgrading to drawers next weekend) and find casual friday clothing. I’t kind of a challenge because I’m having a fat year and nothing fits, and my one remaining pair of jeans are super uncomfortable, because I’m all bloaty. Also? Behind on laundry, which means I’m wearing the bottoms of a swimming suit because surprise I’m out of underwear again.

6:30am I drive at a snail’s pace down my wet frosty road, while that cat cries and howls and make small sad moaning sounds that make me want to ruin my make up and cry too. Car travel with Batz is generally a stressful affair. I try to limit the number of times we have to do it, because I already have more than enough gray hair for a 26 year old.  

7:00am and I’m too early for the vets, and almost out of petrol, which spurs a search for petrol stations in Suburban hell. When I finally find one it’s 7:25 and the vet will be open in five minutes. I have just enough time to get a hot chocolate (full fat, because that’s the kind of day I’m having.) It’s a tiny takeaway cup and burning hot, and before I can even take my first sip I drop the whole hot mess on myself.

Being a tiny cup does not stop the liquid inside from achieving tidal wave proportions inside the Gherkin. I have hot chocolate milk on myself, my seat, inside my handbag, on the passenger seat, and on the cat cage.

To be honest, so far I don’t think Batz is having a good day either. He’s been beaten up, cried on, dragged out of bed way too early, crammed in a cat carrier, scalded with hot chocolate. It’s not about to get better, though, because he’s about to be left at the vet, where they’ll cut out a piece of skin for testing on his poor, over-groomed leg, and then probably clean out his new war wounds, and slap a cone of shame on his poor stressed out neck.

At 7:35, smelling of damp wool, chocolate, and throughly exhausted, I navigate the mine-field of injured animals, and weird smelling stuff that is my vets office, and leave my poor defenceless cat stacked with a pile of other animals in crates behind the desk awaiting the vets arrival.

At 8:00 I navigate the car park, which I hate, because – barring the time I slid off a cliff trying to avoid that guy being a little bit of a road-hog – parking garages are the only place I’ve ever really done damage to my car. They’re tight, and dark, and there are people wandering unexpectedly down ramps, and idiots reversing, and ignoring right of ways, and stupidly placed pillars. In hell, there is an entire world dedicated to you having to parallel park a Station Wagon in a multi-level underground car park. While being required to sing karaoke and listen to talk-back radio discussing race relations in New Zealand. (Talk back radio is where the uneducated racist idiots live.)

At 8:15 work happened, which is a little bit like opening your emails to discover a minefield ahead. Usually I quite like defusing bombs (in this sense at least) but some days you long for a nice photocopying assignment. (Twenty copies? double-sided, and stapled? No problemo!)

At 8:30 the fire alarm goes requiring evacuation. Also swearing. I take the opportunity to grab a hot chocolate (trim this time, because I plan on actually drinking this one, rather than bathing in it.) On my way out I grab a handful of napkins, just in case, because it’s just that kind of day: the kind that requires a stack of napkins stashed in my handbag.


4 thoughts on “It’s that kind of day.

  1. Yeah, he’s looking like he’s fine… $400 to shave more patches, and clean himup, do a skin biopsy on the manscaping area, and put in a few stiches… Phew.

  2. Poor Batz! Hope he is doing okay. Wonder if he had an old injury from before and that is why the excessive grooming? And poor you – rotten day. Hope things are better now.

  3. Oh dear, day from hell! Poor you and poor Batz! And I thought 20 five-year-olds crammed inside for the second day in a row with torrential rain outside was bad enough! Hope your day got better after that and you could enjoy that second hot chocolate.

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