When our cat racked off , my mate the Bacchus Marsh vet organised us a new one. The kids and I were excited. Until we met the Cat of Satan, the stupidest, mentalist, most evil cat ever spawned. Heard of the fish John West reject? We’re talking the cat we all hate. She tortures goldfish, is kitty-litter incompetent and has a skin condition that looks like someone’s gone at her rear end with a cheese grater. She growls like an incinerator and attacks babies. Free to a good home? Stuff that. If you take the kids as well I’ll throw in fifty bucks.
Where Bacchus Marsh vet practises it’s all Maltese Shitzus and Rottweilers. And when I say practise, chances are he’s not officially a vet, more a graduate from the ‘I’ll Have a Stab, Just Don’t Look Too Closely at the Certificates on My Wall or You May Find I Don’t Have a Degree Just a Certificate in Food Handling’ Institute.
BMV spends his days fisting guinea pigs, cleaning up ferret spew and coming home every night reeking of bitches and pussy. Last week BMV had a cat come in withthree four-inch nails through its head (angry neighbours, jilted builder, Xavier muck-up day – who knows?). BMV put the moggy under, pulled out the nails withpliers and the cat’s now miraculously back to normal, slinking about with a snarl on its face that clearly says, ‘Will purr for food but will continue to sit on your computer keyboard if you keep buying that cheap stuff .’ BMV said that despite the glamorous image vets have (WHAT? I used to watch All Creatures Great and Small, and that vet spent the whole time up to his elbow in cow), it was one of the few moments he’s felt like a superhero. BMV wants in on the celebrity-vet action. ‘You work in the media. Get me a show’ ‘What? Queer Eye for the Straight Gerbil? Bugger off , BMV, and go rape a goat with a thermometer.’
Bondi Vet Chris Brown is a celebrity vet. I know what you’re thinking: so was Dr Harry Cooper. The difference is, Dr Harry was a crusty old bloke with a patchwork hat who said things like, ‘This big fella’s brought his young fella in so I can check out this little fella’s old fella,’ punctuated by a disturbing maniacal laugh.
Chris Brown, on the other hand, is so too-good-to-be-true he should be called Christ Brown. He’s handsome, clever and gentle to the small, vulnerable and broken. He is the Perfect Man. If you’re into smart, cute and compassionate. I like my men like my coffee: weak, white and wet.
Bondi Vet is as pointless and shallow as every other sick animal show, despite the eye candy. Animal documentaries? Sure, bring ’em on. But these ‘tune back after the break to see if little fluffy survived the surgery’ shows are shameless vehicles for advertising. It’s about what’s being sold during the break rather than the program. Bondi Vet has been programmed backwards. ‘Gee, you’re the kind of spunk people tune in for. You’re a vet? Tick. Got the lady viewers. What, Bondi? Tick. The boys from the leather bar are tuning in, and scenic views equals international sales. And hello, advertising! All those lonely people spending their pensions on indulging their cat and dog children. Smell that money.’
Bacchus Marsh Vet is no gay icon, but lets hope he’s coming soon.