Last night I was in the bath and reached out to pet my cat with
bubble bath on my hand. She then ran off and started licking
herself immediately (she's not a fan of Jo Malone) and now I'm
concerned that the bubble bath might have permeated the cat and
she's going to become a foaming feline. Obviously I've dashed her
to the vets, and now we're in reception about to be seen.
"Name?" I hate this bit. Whose name does she want, mine or the
cat's? "Minnie" I respond confidently feeling faintly ridiculous.
"Surname?" Oh God I don't know. What is my cat's surname?
"Westwood." The nurse looks at me with suspicion. It sounds a bit
trampy not to know the surname of the cat you lived with for five
years. She offers me a few alternatives from computer, "Yes that's
my girlfriend. The name. Not the cat. Obviously." The joke is not
well received.
God I've just come out at the vets right there between the catnip
cigars and the Science Diet pouches - oh well in for a penny in for
a pound. The receptionist continues, "And what appears to be the
problem with Minnie?" I'm quite stressed at this point imagining my
cat insides expanding with soapy suds, "Well, we were in the bath."
A posh woman with a Tibetan terrier puppy stuffed into a Tote looks
up. I hurriedly qualify. "My girlfriend and I not the cat." The
receptionist is poised to write something but doesn't. I know it's
probably not good etiquette to reveal the details of your daily
ablutions to a bunch of strangers in the vets reception, but in
this case it's vital context.
I tell her there was bubble bath in the bath. It was Morroccan
rose bubble bath. She does not take note of this. I sense she's
still waiting patiently for the answer to her original question. I
get to the bit where I touched the cat with bubble bath, and my
theory that there was transference of bubble bath so now I'm
worried that the cat has ingested some Moroccan rose bubbles by
proxy.
The receptionist is looking down at her keyboard and typing. I
can't see her expression but I can sense that she's stifling a
laugh. She summarizes, "Minnie exposed to bubble bath." Once it was
out there I realised how far fetched it sounded. My little lesbian
bathing revelation has been trumped by the fact that a grown adult
could think a few bubbles would poison a cat. Clearly when you ask
ridiculous questions sexuality takes a back seat to stupidity.
Check out Sarah's column in DIVA magazine each month and
follow her on Twitter if you wish: @rubbishles
