TIGGER SEES HIS DOCTOR

This is Tigger's doctor, Paolo. Tigger, now 15, has been to the vet's only once before and that was beyond living cat memory when he was robbed of his masculinity.

He is the not most brilliant cat in the world and he is, in fact, thick as a plank. This does not mean, however, that he is not a nice, big, sweet cat. He was born here, under a shed, to a feral mother. She stuck around after her two sons were born because the food was decent. Tigger stuck to his mother and did as he was told until she died of leukaemia. Little by little he came into the house where he was told what to do by a highly intelligent tri-coloured cat called Ciao. Then she died of leukaemia at age 22 (it's endemic here) and Tigger had no idea how to conduct his life.

In fine weather, he goes out all day and comes in at night. He is obliged to have his cardboard boxes in my office because there is a big cat-hating Doberman everywhere else.

Now, having been scratched in one eye by a feral tom cat, he has an eye infection. We must put two different drops in his eye four times a day for two weeks. You can imagine how excited we are about this.

I had no idea the vet's smock had dogs and bones on it until I uploaded the picture. No cats, I notice. I know his carrier is too small. It was for a smaller cat. He never needed one before.

Update: So far, no luck. He is a very big, very strong cat, a contortionist of great talent. If we don't succeed, he loses an eye. Meanwhile, our gardening gloves are in shreds, our shoulders are scratched (we need body armour) and he is not happy, either. My pay-back is vomit under my desk chair.

This is Tigger protesting his incarceration: Caged Tiger.