She's very sick. She's hiding under the bed in the basement. I can't coax her out.
Earlier in the day, she was yelling in the kitchen for something, anything. I am out of ideas.
Everyone had a little cold earlier in the week. And in the space of the week, Gracie lost every ounce she put back on since her previous trip to the vet.
I gave her medicine for a couple of days. She got stronger and got away from me.
Now she creeps deeper into the back corner of the bed.
I don't know what to do. I do know that I cannot, I truly cannot spend another thousand dollars on a cat who is so delicate.
Considering that I'm getting ready for a bathroom remodel (all going on my Visa, which is now quite hefty, thank you), this sounds callous, that I'm not even going to try to take the cat to the vet again.
I keep thinking of Polly, whose last illness sucked up the last money I had, only to be told by the emergency vet that there was no saving her. Her diabetes was out of control.
I don't know what to do. I truly don't know. I took Butch to the vet today. Butchy's been peeing all over the place, in copious amounts and drinking and eating as if there would be no food or water left in the world if he didn't nail it. Hunky Vet cut me a huge break by not charging me for the ultrasound. Butchy remains a cat of mystery. He's not diabetic. He's not in kidney failure or liver failure or heart failure. $200 to be told my cat is healthy.
$1000 more to save a cat who can't be saved?
I can't do it. I just can't do it. And I hate myself for it.
1 comment:
Don't hate yourself. It is really the fault of science. Science has not yet learned to make cats invulnerable and immortal. When a cat gets sick, it tends to sneak away so no one will bother it, either until it feels better or until it dies, which isn't something that worries the cat. Cats simply won't grasp the idea that hope springs eternal and the nasty medicine might make them feel better than sneaking off alone will. Cats, my dear Becs, are dumb like that. Cats are dumb in general.
My eldest boy gets lost in the new house. He got lost in the old house. Apparently the 10 feet from where I'm sitting in the living room to the foot of the stairs is as dark and mysterious as the 10 feet between where I sat in the old living room and the old kitchen. Thus, he sits approximately 10 feet from me, with something between us so he can't actually SEE me, and makes the most distressing yowls ever heard (real Oscar winning "best reenactment of a suffering cat" stuff) until I call his name, at which time he ZOOMS toward me like he hasn't seen me in a year, crawls in my face, and covers me with love in his relief.
This relief will last about 15 minutes until he wanders into the kitchen for a drink of water, at which time it starts over again. Dumb. Completely dumb. This goes to eating his own medicated food, which is identical to all the other food except it has some medicine dripped into it. Most days he's a happy nommer, but some days, for reasons unknown, his food is not as good as the identical but medicine -less food in the next bowl, and nothing will change that.
I also think they get a vicarious pleasure out of manipulating our guilt. At least, mine do.
What I am surprised about is that you have not already made all under bed spaces inaccessible. I have the wonder of the underbed storage box, stacked tightly together. I already know they will find other places where I cannot reach them in time of need. I figure the least I can do is make it a challenge for them.
Like any loving relationship, there is suffering. Blasted damn balance thing.
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