Good job we didn't call Kightly Butch!

By Steve Wollaston on Dec 5, 08 10:23 AM

Bit of a bombshell.

The vet confessed, rather sheepishly, that he got the sex of the new kitten in the Lockley's life wrong.

Kightly is a she, not a he. And to think they were going to call her Butch.

Shame that - I was only putting up with the annoying fleabag because I knew there was a very big operation waiting round the corner.

If a human doctor couldn't work out his patients' sex, he'd be struck off. We, however, have to put up with it.

The vet, by way of a lame defence, reckoned it's very difficult to tell the difference at Kightly's age. Give me a break.

If he can't tell the difference between a male and female moggie, what the hell is he doing neutering us?

He just had to look - carefully, admittedly.

And the bloke's an even worse barber. You should've seen the mess he made of my fur.
I hate vets.

I hate the way I have to sit in the waiting room, in my cage, surrounded by sick dogs. He got annoyed because I hissed at him, but I knew exactly where those hands had been - too close to a Pekinese for my liking.

I hate the way they call the animals over the tanoy, not their owners. I die with embarrassment every time the receptionist shouts: "Keogh Lockley - Room One."

Mind you, the pedigree Persian over the road is saddled with 'Prince Morning Sunrise the Third'. That's daft enough, when the receptionist puts 'Bullock' - her owner's name - on the end of it, it sounds bloody ridiculous.

"What are you snivelling at?" I demanded of the neighbouring cat during my most recent visit to the animal doctor.

"I'm just dreading them shouting out my name," he miaowed. "It's Claude."

Nothing wrong with that - it's quite macho.

"It'd be fine," moaned the moggie, "if my owner's surname wasn't Bottomer."