No one told me that mending a cat’s broken leg was about as logical as mending one on a horse.
Not the ER clinic. Not my vet. I had to drive into unknown territory to see some specialists and listen to nurses and assistants swoon over how beautiful my cat is, all because they weren’t going to tell me until they absolutely had to.
And they wanted me to sign right at the bottom where she was tapping the pen.
$50 for the bandage. The post-op xrays alone are around $300. She says they tack all that on at once so I won’t have to worry about a second bill, later on.
I had to stand there a moment and look into her face. I couldn’t tell if she thought I might actually be that stupid. She kept talking and I kind of drowned her out, wondering what my real options were. She even started talking about payment plans. I let her talk; she deserved every wasted breath.
“Can you put a bandage on him please? We’re going to go.”
Five minutes later she came back in saying Corby wasn’t happy and that they would need to put him under to fasten it. It would require all kinds of blood work beforehand, to be “on the safe side” even though he was just put under to be fixed and isn’t allergic. She was dying to stick in needles and crank machine dials.
“No, you can’t.”
She replied with something in her smiley, chipper tone and we didn’t wait for the handouts they insisted on printing.
$100 for a third person to pet my cat, look at his Xray CD and go, “Yep. I bet that hurts.”
I phoned my mom, leaving an angry message that Corby was being put down. I can’t even get through because it’s always online. She raised the kitten until he was old enough to be fixed and live with me.
“… Is he gone.”
What is with people today?
“Of course he isn’t fucking gone! He’s sleeping in the back seat.” My eyes welled up. The cat was riding around in the car, obviously in pain with every street I turned onto.
Now I’m going to look online, how to make a cast.