I recently touched on the creeping onslaught of old age with particular reference to veterinary bills.
The image is usually of a vastly overweight old labrador woofing its farewells and waddling happily home with its mum and dad, a buttock twitching receipt in dad’s wallet and a reminder from the pet insurance company that you won’t get away with that again.
Owners always show a particular interest in all veterinary affairs, and why not considering the degree of financial involvement?
Self-treatment is the answer if joints ands stuff go snap, crackle and pop every morning like turbocharged Krispies and the answer for man and beast is a generous burst of WD40 on all troubleome areas.
A bonus factor – you’ll never go rusty.
I was awaiting my turn in the surgery the other morning (wasp sting on rim of bum – dog, that is, not mine) and read a neat list of self-inflicted dietary poisons I’d been ingesting for most of my life.
It turns out that almost everything consumed is potentially lethal –a biological time bomb likely to go off any time now.
Still, I must have had a good time doing so much wrong and still reaching 80.
Knowing what I know now I should have drunk nothing but distilled rain water, live deep in the country, eat only porridge and lightly-grilled vegetables, never look at women and start and finish each day early with a cold bath in a stone trough in the back yard.
This, the medics reckon would double my life expectancy... I now await someone telling me why I would want to live longer given the exingencies of the half-life awaiting me.
Sorry anyway, this in an almighty digession starting with vets and finishing in a chapel of rest.
I do hope that my surviving dog has plenty of water.
I see that Birmingham has just been named as Britain’s friendliest city.
A recent survey has revealed that people in Brum chat to eash other more than residents in other major cities.
This probably because no-one north of Walsall or south of Solihull can understand a word they’re saying...