The other day, when I was at work, I got a call from the vets with regard to Peppa’s booster shots.
It was quite an arsey call, to be honest, saying that we should have already booked in for her boosters and if we left it much longer it would be some sort of world-ending event and everything would go to pot.
I mean, the thing is, there was a lockdown from March which meant that they were only seeing animals for emergencies, not just to have booster shots, and when the lockdown eased, we enquired about getting Peppa’s boosters done and were told to wait while they cleared the backlog and that someone would be in touch.
I mean, yes, someone was in touch. And she was a cow-bag.
But now starts the week long prep for getting Peppa to the vets. We’ve got the cat box down, and it’s currently wide open in the bedroom, offering a sort of open invitation for Peppa to stroll on it and enjoy its spacious interior with towel floor and slotted skylights.
We’re trying to acclimatise her to the box so that next Sunday morning is not a blood bath as we try and manhandle her into the carrier. Ideally she’d just stroll in, we’d shut the game and the job, as they say, would be a good ‘un.
I don’t think that’s going to be the case. In fact I’m almost 100% sure that won’t be the case. We’ll be fighting her, tooth and nail, dragging her out from under the bed or whatever in order to get her in that box. And we’ll put her in way too early, and she’ll be mewing for ages. And then we’ll set off too early and we have to sit outside and wait to be told we can go in because of the Covid… it’s a complicated procedure.
Made no easier by the cat being too bloody clever for her own good.
She might surprise us, though. She might disappear into the box to chill out.
I doubt it. But she might.