Friday night, Penny was walking a bit stiffly — she didn't seem to find any of my prodding her painful, so I didn't think it could have been serious damage. Perhaps another case of a bit of a muscle strain from getting a claw caught in the throws over the furniture. That had happened in the autumn, when I'd come hom to find her hanging like a bat from the side of one chair, and going into all sorts of muscle spasm when unhooked.
Saturday morning, I came downstairs soon after seven to see her floundering about on the kitchen floor, trying to escape from the fetters that were making her hindquarters useless, and front legs almost so. Unlike Lady May, who had just sat herself into a tidy little bundle and purred as she faded, after she had a stroke, Penny was clearly going to fight with all the strength left to her.
So, the unpleasant task of bundling her into a towel, into the cat-box, for the one-way journey to the vet on an emergency call-out.
And after, cycle into town for the shopping I was going to do anyway, and stop at Grantchester on the way back to get hammered.