Nina and I are both sporting stitches this week.

She was spayed and I – in keeping with the last post about getting old – had a small skin biopsy taken from my manly chest. I was hoping to team up with Nina and parlay this into some tandem sympathy from Robinson.

I’ve played my part, shuffling around the house with a dressing gown over my clothes and looking like I’ve escaped from a dementia ward. I need a haircut. 

Nina, on the other hand, minus her ovaries and uterus, continues to climb the flyscreen door, jumps and sleeps on top of the wardrobe, runs like the wind, somersaults after her tail, and generally gives the impression that even major surgery is no excuse to slow down or complain.

She’s a hopeless patient, frankly.

Youth isn’t wasted on her.

After days of this – according to Robinson – the only thing I get more brownie points for than Nina is that I don’t try to pull my stitches out with my teeth. Take that! Cat.

My doctor said it was possible there’d be some minor scarring from the biopsy.

The vet said all evidence of Nina’s suture line would soon be invisible under her fur.

My best fur growing days are behind me so that’s another tick Nina gets that I miss out on.

I’ve got a few scars already. I fell out of a fast-moving car when I was about three but apparently I bounced along the verge and was retrieved without a scratch on me. The fact that I can’t remember any of this is surely evidence of concussion? No-one listens.

The family retell this story as if it’s hilarious, rather than death defying.

I fell out of a loft too when I was about eight and split my forehead open. Stitches and a scar this time. Now that my fur is thinning the suture line has reappeared to remind me. I don’t remember that fall either though I do remember waking up in Geelong Hospital and vomiting. Concussion, anyone?

Hence my dementia dressing gown. I’m rehearsing the future.

There have been broken noses and bones and cuts and bruises. Minor stuff. I can’t tell if I look like a pirate or a boxer now. Or possibly a book reading inner city ascetic.

To rub insult into injury Nina shreds parts of me every day on her circus routines so I’m pointlessly bleeding most of the time.

I’m not complaining, really. Life is mortal and scars are mere decorations on the way.

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