realise that the sensation I took to be water running down my arms is in fact blood. I have several slashes to each forearm, running from my wrists halfway to my elbows. I rinse my arms under the tap and the bleeding continues.
I sit on the steps for about twenty minutes with each forearm wrapped in an old towel. The moonlight reveals a recently cut lawn but not a hint of cat.
When I check my arms again they are still oozing blood. This is really pissing me off. I realise I canât go to bed like this. I canât do anything until this is properly sorted out.
I find my Medicare card and walk down the hill to the medical centre, the towels wrapped again around my forearms.
I explain my predicament at the counter and Iâm taken straight into the treatment room, where I sit for more than half an hour listening to the waiting room TV through the wall and bleeding patiently. Just after the third time that Iâm told, It wonât be long now , a doctor walks in.
He says, Hi . He says his name is Greg. He has profoundly orange hair.
He looks at my arms and I tell him a cat did it to me, and I almost tell him more. Greg, the orange cat, the cat I am sure is named after him, my grandmotherâs cat, etcetera. But that would only lead me back to the trashing. So I just tell him a cat did it to me.
Some cat , he says. What were you doing to it ?
Flea bath.
He fiddles around, washes my arms with a pink solution, seems not to mind about the on-going bleeding. He talks about sutures and says he thinks we can get away without them. He closes some parts with strips and calls the nurse in to give me a dressing with some pressure. He talks about the possibility of an infection and says I should come back tomorrow or the day after to have the wound checked.
And heâs looking at me as though heâs trying to work something out. As though his mouth might be saying something mundane and procedural, but his brain is off on a tangent. Just when Iâm assuming heâs feeling the end of a long day and his mind is merely elsewhere he says, So how are you? Other than this I mean .
What?
How are you feeling? How are things? Generally .
Fine.
Good. Thatâs good. So, no other problems then? Nothing else youâd like to discuss while youâre here ?
No. I donât think so.
Youâre not ⦠youâre not depressed at all , he says, as though this can masquerade as casual enquiry, or anything?
Well ⦠no. Iâm fine.
But I blew it. I paused and I blew it. If I was fine there would have been no pause. I would have laughed. And now weâre both looking at my forearms as though the bandages are hiding wounds far deeper than cat scratches.
Well, look, you really donât seem very happy to me. And Iâm a bit concerned .
What do you mean?
I know what he means.
Well, those wounds. If they werenât caused by a cat, if it was something else, thatâd be okay. We could talk about it. Things can be sorted out you know, even when they donât look good .
It was a cat. It was a cat, really. You want me to bring it in and show it to you? We can do the forensic thing and get the skin out from under its claws. Except I think itâs run away. We could have done that if it hadnât run away.
So thereâs no cat now ?
Thereâs no cat now. Now. But there was a cat earlier this evening.
So these wounds were caused by some kind of temporary cat ?
No, no. A cat. A regular cat. A cat who didnât like the flea bath, and I think heâs gone now.
Okay . He pauses, I have to ask you something, and I donât want you to be offended, and I want you to answer honestly. Regardless of the cause of these injuries, okay, regardless, can you tell me that if I let you go home now youâll be okay ?
It was a cat.
Fine. It was a cat. And can you give me an undertaking that if you go home now youâll be okay ?
Iâll be fine. Fine. Iâm a bit worried about
I sit on the steps for about twenty minutes with each forearm wrapped in an old towel. The moonlight reveals a recently cut lawn but not a hint of cat.
When I check my arms again they are still oozing blood. This is really pissing me off. I realise I canât go to bed like this. I canât do anything until this is properly sorted out.
I find my Medicare card and walk down the hill to the medical centre, the towels wrapped again around my forearms.
I explain my predicament at the counter and Iâm taken straight into the treatment room, where I sit for more than half an hour listening to the waiting room TV through the wall and bleeding patiently. Just after the third time that Iâm told, It wonât be long now , a doctor walks in.
He says, Hi . He says his name is Greg. He has profoundly orange hair.
He looks at my arms and I tell him a cat did it to me, and I almost tell him more. Greg, the orange cat, the cat I am sure is named after him, my grandmotherâs cat, etcetera. But that would only lead me back to the trashing. So I just tell him a cat did it to me.
Some cat , he says. What were you doing to it ?
Flea bath.
He fiddles around, washes my arms with a pink solution, seems not to mind about the on-going bleeding. He talks about sutures and says he thinks we can get away without them. He closes some parts with strips and calls the nurse in to give me a dressing with some pressure. He talks about the possibility of an infection and says I should come back tomorrow or the day after to have the wound checked.
And heâs looking at me as though heâs trying to work something out. As though his mouth might be saying something mundane and procedural, but his brain is off on a tangent. Just when Iâm assuming heâs feeling the end of a long day and his mind is merely elsewhere he says, So how are you? Other than this I mean .
What?
How are you feeling? How are things? Generally .
Fine.
Good. Thatâs good. So, no other problems then? Nothing else youâd like to discuss while youâre here ?
No. I donât think so.
Youâre not ⦠youâre not depressed at all , he says, as though this can masquerade as casual enquiry, or anything?
Well ⦠no. Iâm fine.
But I blew it. I paused and I blew it. If I was fine there would have been no pause. I would have laughed. And now weâre both looking at my forearms as though the bandages are hiding wounds far deeper than cat scratches.
Well, look, you really donât seem very happy to me. And Iâm a bit concerned .
What do you mean?
I know what he means.
Well, those wounds. If they werenât caused by a cat, if it was something else, thatâd be okay. We could talk about it. Things can be sorted out you know, even when they donât look good .
It was a cat. It was a cat, really. You want me to bring it in and show it to you? We can do the forensic thing and get the skin out from under its claws. Except I think itâs run away. We could have done that if it hadnât run away.
So thereâs no cat now ?
Thereâs no cat now. Now. But there was a cat earlier this evening.
So these wounds were caused by some kind of temporary cat ?
No, no. A cat. A regular cat. A cat who didnât like the flea bath, and I think heâs gone now.
Okay . He pauses, I have to ask you something, and I donât want you to be offended, and I want you to answer honestly. Regardless of the cause of these injuries, okay, regardless, can you tell me that if I let you go home now youâll be okay ?
It was a cat.
Fine. It was a cat. And can you give me an undertaking that if you go home now youâll be okay ?
Iâll be fine. Fine. Iâm a bit worried about
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