Sydney University Veterinary Hospital
Sydney Morning Herald
Saturday August 18, 2001
Every year I have to take J. D. Salinger to the veterinary clinic - no, not the reclusive author from New England but a cat with the demeanour of a speed freak at 4 on a Saturday morning.
Sal is a good-looking guy, which is the reason why my ex-girlfriend picked him out from the 100 or so kittens at the RSPCA (tip: never let a girlfriend buy an animal if it can't be eaten later, a chicken for example, because you will end up with it when the relationship falters).
Sal's greeting-card looks belie a personality that makes Ivan Milat seem like the guy who drives the local Mr Whippy van.
This discovery came as a rude shock when Sal first ripped the flesh on my throat as I bent down to pat his furry little head.
Generally, as long as there is food for him, our relationship works just fine. He fulfils the role of the Hitchcockian lodger you suspect is mutilating people and disposing of their bodies in the backyard. I work the tin opener.
Taking him to the vet is never pretty. It always seems to involve at least three of the following: some sort of reinforced steel cage, six metres of electrical cord, a small hockey mask, a tranquilliser gun, a Costa Rican passport and $US10,000 in cold, hard cash. Several students at the university veterinary clinic have dropped out to become truck drivers after giving Sal his check-up.
After years of stitches, blood transfusions and plastic surgery, I sent the hairy little bastard off to a North Shore woman who goes by the name The Cat Whisperer and she has worked miracles.
While Sal still shouldn't be left alone with small children, I am confident our next trip to the vet will be more like an ad for Snappy Tom than A Nightmare On Elm Street.
© 2001 Sydney Morning Herald
