Paying for Pussy

We have two cats. Or, should I say, my WIFE has two cats. I have two piles of fur I hate with a passion.

One of these cats, Little One, is the bane of my existence. No one knows exactly how old she is because MJ got her as a stray years ago. But she’s old. She’s a black Maine Coon, about 7 lbs. Tiny little thing, hence the ultra original name.

So for the last two days, Little One has done nothing but sit near the water bowl and stare off into space without moving. MJ was worried. I was not quite as concerned. Because although cat owner may not want to hear this, I have a little secret for them. When cats get old…THEY DIE!

That’s right people, old things die. Period, end of story. And Little One is old. In fact, I’ve been slowly trying to prepare my wife for the day we find Little One has shuffled off this mortal coil and gone to kitty heaven. But MJ doesn’t want to hear it. She thinks the godforsaken thing has some more time. To me, that’s like saying Terri Schiavo had a few good years left. It’s just not true.

So yesterday, while MJ was at work and I was home with Will, the phone rings. It’s MJ. And she wants me to take Little One to the vet.

At this point, a cat-hating husband has two choices: 1) Put your foot down and make a command decision while telling your wife in no uncertain terms that spending hundreds of dollars to diagnose a cat as “old as dirt” is pointless and under no circumstances are we doing it, especially because of the financial bind we’re in. Or 2) Give in because you know it’s important to her.

I REEEEEEEEEALLY wanted to choose #1. But I didn’t.

Instead, I packed a near comatose Little One into a box and wrapped her up with a towel. The only problem was I had Will with me and no one to watch him. So I also packed up a diaper bag, bundled the boy up and threw everyone in the car on our way to the vet’s office.

I want you to picture, if you will, a 30-year-old man exiting an SUV. He’s got a diaper bag slung over his shoulder. Tucked under his right arm is a basket, filled with a small black cat wrapped in a towel. And because he didn’t realize it right away, the bottom of the basket is ready to fall through so he has to hold it by the bottom. In the other hand, a rambunctious 2-year-old is desperately trying to get down so he can run across the parking lot like a maniac.

Things only got worse when we actually got inside the vet’s office, because the waiting room was filled with sick animals. And as most of you know, a room full of animals + a crazed toddler = FUCKING KILL ME NOW! The only silver lining was the receptionist took one look at me, frowned, and immediately sent me into a room to wait for the doc. I spent the next hour trying to corral my son, who was on sensory overload with all the animals around in addition to being in a new place. Nightmare.

They gave Little One a once over but couldn’t find anything immediately wrong with her. So then I asked what my options were. They told me the office visit was $56. In addition, they wanted to run blood tests. “How much?” I said, a little too curtly. when the vet said $230 I had to ask her if I had a mite in my ear. Fucking $230 for blood work, the office visit, IV fluids, special food and appetite stimulants. Freaking awful.

But anyone who has pets knows this whole thing is a total racket.

I can tell you right now what’s going to happen. They’re going to run $230 worth of blood tests and they still won’t have any fricking idea what’s wrong with the cat. And you wanna know why? BECAUSE THE FUCKING CAT IS OLD AND DYING!! I’m not a vet, but even I can diagnose old age! And I can do it for free. But MJ would’ve been racked with guilt if we had just done nothing, which I’m sure veterinarians bank on, so we paid for it.

And as an added bonus, Will decided to break free of my grasp on our way out and sprint through the parking lot. So with a cat in one hand and a diaper back over my shoulder, I ran after him and caught him. Just as he was about to throw his patented shit fit and throw himself on the ground, I grabbed the front of his winter jacket with one hand and pulled him up to my chest. He looked at me in shock and frankly, I was a little surprised I managed that maneuver too.

So now I’m back at home and the cat is still staring off into space. We’ll hear about the blood work on Tuesday, at which point they’ll try to convince us to run more tests at an even greater price, when all we should really be doing is letting her die in peace at home.

And yes, I’ll admit, I hate cats. Hate them. Want them all to die. I’m not kidding either, if there was a section of YouTube devoted to cat torture, I’d be a subscriber. But you do strange things for the people you love, even if those things don’t make a damn bit of sense.

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8 thoughts on “Paying for Pussy

  1. Cats creep me out too! My mother has 5 (yes, crazy cat lady). I remember one of her cats died a few years ago and she sent me a letter saying ‘death looms’. Um….fucking take an antidepressant. Seriously.

  2. I feel bad for MJ and Little One. But there does come a time…

    Of course, I once fished a cat we were giving away to your aunt out of our swimming pool and took it to the vet, only to have it later run away, so…

  3. I’m having vet problems myself. If you hate that cat, you better hope it is old age and not Addison’s disease, like my dog has cause he now has to have a shot that cost $150 every month for the rest of his life plus pills which increases his appetite, but I love him.

  4. Whitebullie: Make no mistake, dogs are a completely different story. I would empty my bank account for my dog’s well being. But a dog gives back much more than any cat ever could.

  5. My wife wants to get a cat, and I always convince her otherwise because of one simple thing: The litter box. She always agrees to cleaning it, but somehow when it comes time to be done, the chore falls upon me. When we gave away our last cat, I vowed never again.

  6. This is so timely! I came home yesterday with a home IV treatment kit for my cat. In the sensible time before my cat started to really go downhill, my husband and I had agreed that we weren’t going to get involved with the old cat fluid treatment racket (as we saw it), but when I was at the vet and everyone was sad and grim about her condition…well, how could I say no? My husband was initially miffed about the whole thing–we had agreed, remember?– but then he set up a place to hang the bag from and promised he’d help with the treatments.

    I also came home with pro-biotics for one of my dogs. Now I’m that lady, giving pro-biotics to my dog and subcutaneous fluid treatments to my cat who is in chronic renal failure. No wonder everyone at the veterinary hospital knows my name.

    Great blog, by the way.

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