I feel as if I am not ready to meet the world.
Yesterday a letter arrived from my regular medical practitioner THE VET. I wonder if he is trying to drum up business. ‘Dear Sasha, ‘ said the letter, ‘it’s time for your annual checkup and vaccinations.’
Lynettea says she might see if the home visit people will come instead of her trying to get me to the surgery with no car.
When the home visit Vet came last year I hid under the bookshelves in the lounge room. The Vet shone his torch around to find me and Lynettea pulled out all the clutter. Then he had me pinned down and I had to submit. Later, when the Vet went to get something from his car, I jumped on the fridge and hid near the wall, so far back that he could barely reach me.
‘Maybe the Vet won’t want to come again, Sasha,’ says Lynettea.
I don’t want the Vet. I am fighting fit.
