Cat-astrophe

"Monty Cat won't be any trouble," said I to Mr and Mrs Nunn, who had kindly agreed to flat and cat-sit whilst we were away. "He's pretty low maintenence. A bit of dry food in the morning at 7, a bit more in the evening at 6, make sure he has plenty of water available, and tickle his tummy when you come in. Oh, and clear out his litter once a day. Just in case, here's the vet's number."

Mr and Mrs Nunn are not - by any stretch of the imagination - "cat people". Yet this was a simple task. We were all sure we could cope.

And off we toddled to Tunisia for a lovely, lovely time.

Fast forward three days and we return to the flat to a long note from Mr and Mrs Nunn. Monty Cat had decided to start urinating blood everywhere. Mostly on the furniture. Every five minutes there was a fresh puddle of cat blood. This - apparently - wasn't that much fun for Mr and Mrs Nunn, who clearly have no sense of adventure.

Off to the vet went Monty Cat on our return. His temperature was taken, antibiotics were injected. The whole thing cost me the best part of £70. Freeloading feline bastard.

Diagnosis? Stress. Our stupid fucking cat missed us, so decided his best form of protest was to panic us into never going away again. By bleeding from the bladder. Cats live approximately 15 years. We have had Monty Cat approximately 6 months. This means our next holiday will be 2033.

Shit.