The vets this afternoon, me and The G.
The B opted out. He didn't miss much, the scales not made available to us this time around.
The G jumped at the chance to go, in the main because I'd suggested there might be one or two unusual animals to look at.
In the event, none proved stranger than our own.
Cat One, in good working order.
Cat Two, could be suffering from stress, the vet's disturbing diagnosis.
"Is there anything in particular that might be making him stressed?" the vet asked at one point.
I looked around to see The G chasing Cat Two, whooping and pulling on his tail on the occasions she managed to get close enough.
"Nothing springs to mind," I said.
Cat Two received an injection but should certain symptoms not clear up, it'll be back to the surgery for a further examination and some blood tests that are, in the vet's own words, 'expensive and unreliable'.
Not great, but at least we did better than the people before us on the appointment schedule.
Their cat went in, a confident look on his face.
Their cat did not come out again.
Ours did, at least, albeit a little on the stressed side, evidence perhaps that small children and pets are not always compatible.
Finished in the consulting room, waiting for the bill, we perused the notice board, one hand-written advertisement in particular catching the eye.
"Large cockerel seeking a good home," it read.
"Do you think we ought to get a cockerel?" I asked The G, not entirely serious.
She looked at me, then at Cat Two, a despairing look forming on her face.
The G shook her head.
"No Daddy," she sighed.