So the cat escaped again. From my multiple-punctured, bleeding arms.
"NOOOOOOOO!" I cried. "PENELOPE NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"
But it was too late. She had disappeared over the fence.
This time, she had jumped into the other neighbour's backyard. Yes, you read that right. The OTHER neighbour.
So there I went, knocking on a different door, where a different lady answered, and this different lady was also in her nightie. I kid you not. This was starting to become a pattern.
And so I was shown into a different house, to a different backyard, where I rescued the same bloody cat, again cowering in a corner. And I carried her back through this house - thankfully sans-dog - where she proceeded to go equally demented and made further, significant puncture wounds in the region of my arms and shoulder.
But this time, this time, I got her home.
Picasso showed stunning foresight when painting this pic of me
But I did it. Because it sounded marginally better than dying of tetanus. (Though as I was still without a coffee machine, death sounded faintly appealing.)
I got my jab. And then I made my sorry way home, broken and horribly wounded and with spirit crushed beyond recognition.
Penny the cat was waiting for me, purring. I noticed that her litter needed emptying and so I donned the gloves and began shovelling the clumps into the toilet. I buy special litter that is flushable, which is highly convenient, except when it isn't.
Because the litter didn't flush. Oh no. It clogged up the toilet which began overflowing onto the bathroom floor. And there I was, ankle deep in grossness, weeping into my plunger and bemoaning the tragedy of my life.
And that, my friends, is where the story ends. I told you. I couldn't make this s**t up.