cat's tale,part 8

So.... I took Lucy back to the vet on Tuesday afternoon, and the Dr. picked up the bony little thing, then lied to her and told her how good she looked. She really is much more energetic, active, interested in eating and drinking, so I know she feels better. But weighs about the same as a sack of sugar.  I know people who have felines that weigh twenty pounds or more, so this one, so lean you can feel each knob of her backbone and every single rib is really remarkable.

The vet said they needed to run tests to be sure that the dosage on her meds is good/right, and do an x-ray to check her lungs. I said: 'before you do any of that, I need to ask you to be as financially conservative as possible.'  So she said she would get the office staff to give me an estimate on the cost. When she brought in the paperwork, showing that it would be just over $100, my first thought was: "#% $*'',  I said "I have discovered guilt is a great motivating factor, and I know if I don't do this, I will feel like I am a bad mom." So all that testing happened. Vet had to use a long, scary syringe to pull more fluid off her lungs. I was not a witness to this - they would have been picking me up off the floor.

Vet said that Lucy needs to have the heart drugs twice a day, along with the other two that she gets morning and night, so now all three meds are x 2. I am thinking she will soon be so valuable I will have to get her bronzed, like outgrown baby shoes, if not gold plated. The sad part is at her age, all we are doing is 'making her comfortable'. I know it is very uncommon to have a cat, esp. one who has always lived outdoors in the world of predators and motor vehicles to live to the ripe old age of fifteen. And with all these drugs she seems to be holding her own. Enjoying life in cat fashion: snoozing in the sunshine, sleeping twenty-plus hours a day, expecting someone with opposable thumbs open the 'fridge and pour milk, demanding cans of wet food on a regular basis. A pretty good life if you can get it...

I  have a friend who loves to tell the story of her son: who went out in the back yard, long after a pet cat had deceased and been interred, to dig up his friend, named Oliver Wendell Holmes, just to see what the creature looked like when there was nothing but skeleton left. And kept the skull in his closet for years. (This kid later became an orthopedic surgeon. Now retired, with a second career as a photographer.)  That cat's head might still be tucked away up on the closet shelf today.