I’ve never been what anyone would call lucky with pets. Now
don’t get me wrong, I love animals and nature and all that. It’s
just that my somewhat sordid pet past is full of goldfish and
hamsters and parakeets, all of which met with untimely, tragic
deaths.
I’ve never been what anyone would call lucky with pets. Now don’t get me wrong, I love animals and nature and all that. It’s just that my somewhat sordid pet past is full of goldfish and hamsters and parakeets, all of which met with untimely, tragic deaths.
But after all these years decimating the domestic animal kingdom I’m happy to say that I’ve finally found an animal that can withstand my care: cats. Yes, it’s true. Not only do they thrive and live to ripe old ages at my house, I have spares.
So you can imagine what kind of shock it was for me when my daughter said our normally energetic orange cat, Wally, looked “floopy.”
For those of you without pets, “floopy” is a very sophisticated medical term made up by my daughter that apparently means a cross between looking lethargic and hung over. And in case you were wondering, let me just say that, after a quick check of the liquor bottles in the kitchen cabinet we concluded that it was the former not the latter.
Sure, some of you out there are probably thinking, “So what? That doesn’t sound so serious to me.” And it’s a decent point, I admit. But it’s especially alarming because Wally is the type of cat who, if he was a person, would be the guy at the party dancing on top of the table with a lampshade on his head. Sort of like the feline equivalent of a college Frat Boy.
So I did what any caring and conscientious pet owner would do: I called the vet. And that, my friends, was my first big mistake.
Okay, okay. Let me stop right here and say that I have nothing against vets. I know they are professionals in a noble career who deserve every penny they earn. However, given a choice, no one on this planet would rather pay for “X-rays and shots” when all that money could go for, say, a nice Hawaiian vacation. But as any good pet owner will tell you, that’s the sort of responsibility you have with pets.
So I called the vet and explained to the receptionist all about Wally’s floopiness and loss of appetite and frat boy image and all that. And I would like to say that when I finished, the receptionist sighed knowingly and diagnosed exactly what the problem was, then phoned in a (very cheap) prescription at the local drug store, and called it a day. But no.
Instead, I was faced with the three most expensive words in the English language: Bring. Him. In.
Oh, sure. I knew it was coming.
So being the guilt-ridden pet owner that I am, that’s exactly what I did. That was my second big mistake.
Not because I didn’t want to, mind you, but because, as anyone with pets knows, once you get to the veterinarian’s office any symptoms they had automatically disappear. Any sign of lethargy or sickness is automatically replaced with energetic hissing and swatting, much like the kind you see in herds of ferocious wild monkeys on Animal Planet.
Needless to say, when I carried Wally in the exam room, he chased his tail around the table then stared at the vet in a, “Hey, what are YOU looking at?” sort of way.
Five blood tests, two X-rays, four shots, and three hundred dollars later, the vet came to a conclusion: 1) Wally will either get better or worse. 2) He will either live to be a ripe old age or die young of an undetectable disease. Or 3) It’s most likely that Wally will be fine because, you see, cats roam around at night and sleep during the day – and my daughter woke him up.
So I feel like a good cat owner for taking him in, a bad cat owner for complaining about it, and a stupid cat owner for reasons I don’t need to explain to you.
In other words, having pets is a lot like having kids. Except the chance of looking like a fool is perhaps better with animals.
But, trust me, not all that much better.
Debbie Farmer is a humorist and a mother holding down the fort in California, and the author of Don’t Put Lipstick on the Cat. You can reach her at fa********@oa***************.com.
