Sunday started out nice and mellow, but took a quick turn to the horrifying and expensive. Kid #2 looked at our cat Clementine (it’s always Clementine) and, pointing at her hindquarters, said, “Oh my God, what’s that?”
I almost broke a leg racing across the room to peer at the cat’s backside. What I saw was bad. I grabbed the phone and called the vet’s office. Our vet is open seven days a week, but I’m pretty sure they inflate their already high prices even more on the weekends. Whatever.
When the receptionist asked for a description of the issue, I said, “Well, I’m no professional, but it looks like a really large abscess.”
She gave us an appointment later that afternoon.
Clementine abhors the carrier and the car. Nothing good ever comes of it, in her opinion. She was clearly not herself and just meowed faintly as we drove to the vet. Then we waited for half an hour alongside an older husky and a fat boxer. Why do vets do that? It would be so much better to segregate the cats from the dogs. Poor Clementine just huddled quietly in her carrier and tried to disappear.
The vet looked at the problem area, and sure enough, Clementine had an abscess. I won’t go into the gory and disgusting details. After the vet left the examining room to work up an estimate for her treatment, I told kid #2, “Bet this means surgery, at least one overnight in the kennel, and about $700.” She wouldn’t take that bet.
Turned out, though, the incredibly young vet could simply sedate Clementine (with a $90 shot of kitty morphine), lance the abscess, insert a drainage tube, stitch her up and send her home. There were also blood tests, subcutaneous fluids, an extended-release antibiotic shot, and a supply of kitty morphine to take home, but no anesthesia or surgery. Hooray?
Two hours later, we returned home with a very sad, very stoned cat. She has to wear the cone of shame for a couple of weeks and she’s in a fair amount of pain, so I keep giving her doses of the kitty morphine.
Poor Clementine is so stoned, she keeps getting stuck in the corners of rooms. The cone obstructs her vision and she can’t seem to find her way out of the corner. Or even remember that there’s a room beyond the corner. She doesn’t seem distressed about it. I gently nudge her around so she can see the rest of the world and let her decide what to do about it.
I’m a little envious of her oblivion. And her awesome drugs.