Pugwash lives

I suppose it was inevitable.  Luis has been going on and on about the little blind kitten in the wheelie bin and was up at six this morning while I was dead to the world.  The house was very quiet.  The kind of quiet that conceals a conspiracy of silence broken only by the spitting of a ball of fluff.

‘I caught it,’ he announced proudly, putting his head around the door.  He’d managed to grab the little moggie while its mother’s back was turned.  ‘I’m taking it to the vet.’  I tried to get back to sleep.  An hour later he was back armed with syringes, medicine and antibiotics and a cat-in-the-box.  ‘Hello Kitty’ this was not but the little scrap was apparently alive and well and could now see out of one eye.  The other had burst from the infection but the drugs should ensure no further damage.  He was a feisty little thing, spitting and resisting with his mouth full of needle teeth but he took his medication like a man.  Then he was ready for some food.  Dog food was not thought to be entirely appropriate so a can of Whiskas was found at the local Supermercado.  And some milk.  Lap lap, lick lick.  Gone.  Sleep.

Luis relaxed by the pool and was feeling good.  I’m not sure who gained more from that little act of charity but I think everyone was a winner and that’s surely the basis of any good deal.

‘What should we call him?’

‘You sure we should give him a name?’  A one-eyed kitten in a house full of dogs doesn’t sound such a great idea to me.

‘Yes.  He needs a name.  We can’t keep calling him Cat.  He might be offended.’

It was OK for Holly Golightly and I could live with it, but he was right; the resurrected cat needed a name.  I tried to think of something suitable, manly, buccaneering, fighting-fit but monocular.

‘What about Pugwash?’ I said.

He nodded.  ‘OK, Pugwash it is.’  Pause.  He looks at me reassuringly.  ‘Of course, I’ll put him back on the street in a week’s time when the course of antibiotics is over,’

Yeah, right.

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