Pet shop boy

This is a pet shop in deepest Harrogate. I was in there looking for catnip mice or some other dingly-dangly cat toy. Not for me you understand. For one thing I am not a cat (not the last time I checked anyway). Nor do I have one - I live in a flat on the top floor of my building. With no cat flap. Instead it was for one of my mother's two cats, who has just completed yet another round of surgery. He is 17 now, and while his sister has remained largely ageless, just getting a little more subdued in her later years, he has suffered a succession of catty health problems. He had major dental surgery a year or so ago, he's bruised his tail coming through a cat flap, dislocated a claw, developed kidney problems and most recently has had surgery for a gum inflammation. On top of all that he also has what is demurely referred to as 'age-related cognitive dysfunction' -ie feline dementia. The main symptoms of the latter are walking in circles, an air of confusion when he enters rooms sometimes, and miaowing his furry head off several times a day for no apparent reason. He is half-Siamese so he has the vocal chords to make a lot of noise when he wants to. Attention generally shuts him up - toys too.
My ole Ma has run up an absolute fortune in vet's bills as a result of all this. I make contributions to these when I can and will be doing so again this week.

A blippin' footnote: I recently came across the origin of the word 'pet'. Apparently it comes from the French 'petit', meaning 'small'. So it was originally an endearment meaning something like 'my little one'.