The Recuperative Powers of the Feline Creature

I am given to understand that when a lady has a hysterectomy, she is pretty much confined to quarters for at least six weeks post-op and not allowed to even lift as much as a remote control for up to six months. No driving, no hanging the washing out on the line, no exertions involving major muscle groups. I don't know this for sure because my GP refuses to refer me for a hysterectomy even though for the last 5 years I have regarded my bits as a pointless nuisance and therefore excess to my requirements. He keeps muttering things about me being 'young' and 'might want more children.' HA! I'm going to be a granny for heaven's sake. I don't want more children of my own, that's for sure. And Andy can't stand children (so he says), so the GP's argument is groundless in my eyes.

Anyway, Pandora had her 'hysterectomy' yesterday. Andy phoned just before lunch to say that all was well, she'd been very good under the anaesthetic (which I understand is vet parlance for 'didn't try to wake up and freak me out mid-op,') and that lovely nurse Sarah was making sure Pandora was being cossetted with a smidge or two of tuna.

So I set about preparing a rest and recovery package for the return of the invalid. You know, fluffy blanket, bed socks, hot water bottle, mug for cocoa, some nice biscuits and a bit of fruit, a copy of Woman's Own, and My Weekly for the stories, that kind of stuff. I thought, we'll have a nice quiet evening in front of the telly, so Pandora can recover from the traumas of the day. I expect she'll be tired from the anaesthetic, poor thing.

Andy arrives home. Opens the cat basket. Pandora staggers out. She has a large patch of shaved fur on her side which is covered by a large dressing and a smaller patch of shaved fur on her little front leg. She is looking a bit squiffy eyed. She's been micro-chipped, too.

I kneel on the floor.
'Hello, little fluffy girl,' I coo.
'Have you see the state of my fur?' she says. 'Look. I've lost a huge wodge. It'll take years to regrow.'
'It won't,' I say. 'It'll all be back in a month, you wait and see.'
'And I'm hungry,' said Pandora. 'All I got in the hospital was a bit of tuna.'
'I've filled up your food bowl,' I say.
'With dried cat food?' asks Pandora.
I nod
'I think I'll have some of that roast pork you've just taken from the oven,' she says, and because I am feeling bad about the day she's had, I feed her little bits of warm roast pork.

Then, as she starts moving around, she catches a glimpse of the dressing that is covering her stitches.
'Ye Gods!' she says, leaping into the air. 'What in the name of all that's holy is that?'

And she grabs the edge of the dressing between her teeth and wrenches it from her shortly shaved fur. I wince because I imagine it must be like leg-waxing, but it doesn't seem to bother Pandora.
'Hello,' she says, examining her operation wound. 'What are these?' And she gives the ends of the stitches an experimental tug.
'Don't pull those,' warns Andy. 'Or I'll have to put a buster collar on you.' (A buster collar is one of those lampshade effect contraptions to prevent animals licking and chewing at bits of their anatomy whilst they heal.)
'Oh yeah?' says Pandora. 'Well, you'll have to catch me first,' and she spends the next hour racing around the house, thinking it great larks to stop periodically and tug at her stitches. We try everything we can to distract her - playing fetch, waving her string on a stick in a tempting manner, feeding her more pork - but eventually we realise the buster collar must be employed.

It takes a certain amount of rugby tackling, wrestling holds and adapting the collar with a bit of bandage to fit the thing to Pandora's neck. She sits and stares at us like a mightily hacked off Elizabeth the First. And then she continues to fling herself about in wild abandon, chasing toys, attacking feet, hurdling the sofa, getting stuck by the collar in very small places.

I am concerned that overnight Pandora will either a) strangle herself on her collar b)be strangled by Phoebe or Tybalt by her collar or c) pull off her collar and wrench out her stitches so I'll come downstairs in the morning and find her life ebbing away from her in a pool of blood.

So Pandora gets to sleep on our bed.

At 1.30 a.m I wake with numb feet because Pandora is sleeping in a dead weight across them. I get up, go downstairs for a glass of water, give Pandora water because she has followed me into the kitchen, stab myself on a knife that is sitting pointy bit up in the draining rack and decide that as I am having a hot flush, I need the bedroom window open so Pandora will have to stay on the landing.

For the next hour she sits on the landing alternating between mewing plaintively and trying to scratch her head which means her collar banging against the bedroom door.

As the sun rises, I get up and find Pandora has wrestled herself from her collar. But her stitches are intact and clean, so phew!

So Pandora Kitten is fine. Having a hysterectomy has barely impacted on her life at all. Which to me means cats are far more resilient to these things than us humans.

Either that or they are too stupid as a species to milk these situations for as much as they are worth...