With all the hurly-burly of modern life we must all spare a thought for the plight of those lesser creatures, the members of the animal kingdom that walk among us, but which cannot normally make themselves understood.
Drop your animal query to Dr Emily Price-Finch @ Vet’s Mailbag @ Newaustralianbulletin@protonmail.com
LOOKING AFTER SICK CAT
I have always respected veterinarian doctors nearly as much as I do the prophet Mohammed, may Allah have 50 virgins strike my trousers down if this is not true! Blessed are Allah’s four-legged children — with the exception of the dog, which is the brother of the Jew! I am in need of advice, even if you are an infidel, but my Imam is currently in Silverwater gaol on fake charges that the servants of the Jew produced like black magic, may the NSW Police all die of complications of the bowel. Please tell me, oh Bondi Vet, can I receive Centrelink payments for looking after my step mother’s sick cat?
Mohammed K of Puchbowl N.S.W
Thank you for your letter. But you think you’ve got problems? There is a slice of marmalade toast stuck down my brassiere and it’s causing hellish stickiness upon my bosoms, which wags of earlier times during the Blitz joked were so large they could be set aloft and used to keep a check on the Hun’s aircraft. Capital, what. But you see my own pussy is in peculiar sorts and loathe to come and lick it up, as I’m quite immobilised at present due to an indulgent afternoon tea with the Vicar. At least I believe it was the Vicar. It was very hard to tell after the sherry, which I’m afraid to say, had gone off some. But I do note from your letter that you are an Arabic gentleman of the Islamic faith and therefore quite unsuitable to me as an interlocular As a veterinarian, it has been my distress ‘lo these many years to have to treat farm animals that have been used somewhat improperly by their beastly Arab owners. I refer to the misappropriation of donkeys and suchlike but it is a subject too gruesome for one currently compromised by the remnants of high tea.
GETTING HIS GOAT
Since arriving in Melbourne from my Indian hometown of Pune in 2017 I have been struck by terrible homesickness. In between shifts at the BP station I can do little but sit and pine for my home, my fat mother and my little pet goat David, whom I named after my favourite actor, David Niven. I would dearly love to have a pet here in which I might find solace and the company I crave, but my living circumstances may be less than ideal, so I seek your professional opinion. I am presently living in a one-bedroom unit, I sleep on the sofa, top-to-tail with Dirty Vikram while the seven cousins of Dinesh use the bedroom; Kannan the security guard lays out on the kitchen bench at night and we rent out the hallway floor to sleepy Uber drivers on an ad-hoc basis. There is a small courtyard but that is where we all keep our motor scooters so any animal I did bring into my home would be restricted to the bathroom and the front nature strip of dead grass littered with broken furniture and tyres. Are there any Australian goat breeds that you know of which may thrive in such a household?
Ranjit, St Albans, Vic
As moved as I am by your letter you find me indisposed. I am at present confined to my bed by the combined effects of sub-standard corsetry and an incompetent neighbour. You see, the notorious Ms Botten who lives downstairs had promised me a weekend away at her brother’s isolated farm near Casterton, where we were to engage in days of deep self-exploration and sundry nocturnal activities of a mutually satisfying nature. No sooner had we set forth along the Western Highway in Botten’s ancient Rover than I heard one of the stays in my recently purchased lavender bustier give way with an almighty crack! In considerable distress, I shrieked at my now harried neighbour who, in her panic, rammed the groaning old saloon car into the central wire barrier, thus rendering us stranded and myself in imminent danger of a violent mammary eruption as the remaining fixtures of my undergarment gradually disintegrated. With the use of one of my companion’s female appliances I was able to shore up the inexpensive corset while swatting away her attempts at aid; Ms Botten is well known for her “Russian hands and Roman fingers” and would only have made matters worse by interfering with my person in the heat of the moment. Unable to proceed we were forced to rely on the help of several passing Hell’s Angels, a tow-truck driver who arrived completely drunk and the services of the most appalling Levantine taxi driver who kept sucking his tobacco-stained fingers and cocking his eyebrows at me in a most suggestive manner. So to you Ranjit I must apologise, for the whole episode of unravelling feminine support, reckless driving by a Sapphic downstairs neighbour and the carnal disposition of our reeking Lebanese cabbie has rendered me quite unable to work.