Toby & his rock'n'roll lifestyle: fights, bites, other cats & drugs

Bit of drama here at Ronemeda on Monday: Toby got himself into what I imagine was a one-sided fight with another cat, a big meanie-poo who picks on little 4 month old moggies. So I come home from the cinema and discover the previously playful kitty in a fit of what could almost be teenage angst, but was probably just miserable pain. When I patted him along the back he yelped like I'd poked him with a red-hot poker and then ran and hid under the bed. So I called on my kind-of-local cat courier service (also, strangely enough, my mother - it's a small world) and gots us to the vet. Who fixed him up good and proper - shaved a bit of fur off his side, where there was a puncture wound from that nasty cat's tooth. Gave him a shot of something in his leg. Fixed us up with some green pills. He also ran his hands repeatedly over the poor cat's sore back to try and find if there was another puncture wound that would need shaving and closer investigation. This Toby did not like one bit, and me neither - he was crying something terrible and I felt so guilty, having been at the cinema enjoying a life of leisure while my baby was getting mugged and molested by some bully-cat equivalent of Phillip Ruddock. Just because Toby is a delicate flower/future-librarian/David-Bowie-loving-nerd! But he's fighting the good fight against the armies of corks which are invading our house - slightly less scary than orcs but still after the one true feathered mouse to rule them all. (Ok, so maybe I need to get out of the house a little more...)

But don't fret, he's back in form now and proved it by purring lots and also pouncing on my face while I tried to sleep. At least it was not as bad as Martin's diagnosis: that he'd been bitten by a zombie duck from down the creek/drain and was going to turn into undead poultry and you know, 28-Days-Later us all to death. Because he did keep making these quaking-type noises when we tried to touch him on the back. But the vet said we'd all be dead by now if that had been the case. Dead or undead. And can the undead write blogs? This be proof to the contrary or incriminating evidence.

Today's crisis is how I can make the less than 1cm of milk left in the carton last for the day's worth of cups of tea. Because of course I can't just go out and buy more. That would involve leaving the house.