Cost a packet

We arrive chez le vet. The cat and I had had about 2 cigarettes. The neighbour had smoked the other 6 in the pack..

“My little flea, my little pussy will die.” She informed the receptionist. Gallic shrugs all round including the cat.

We join the queue. A German shepherd limps in on crutches. (Not true – but I’m an artist OK). Actually the owner had the crutches. The dog looked fine. Finally we hand over the cat for observation and tests. The neighbour writes a cheque for 240 Euros. Yes – that’s the personal debt of every new born baby in Greece. It doubles by the time of their first feed. Shrugs all round.

We come home. She fills me up. I re-filter a few Gauloises through my lungs. I learn that the cat is one of dozens of wild strays that plague the village and that Monsieur le Maire plans to exterminate them. I feel like a rebel and a feline freedom fighter. I smell like a gammon rasher. We await developments.