So last night, in accordance with the laws of summer we had a thunderstorm. And in accordance with the laws of our house, that meant that Jack, our sweet doggy boy was launched out from under the bed by the first loud rumble of thunder and sent pacing throughout the house.
Also out was Emoticon our outdoor kitty we have desperately been treating with about a bazillion eye drops in a crazy attempt to stop her from going blind. So because I am clearly the superior pet parent everyone was in my office. Emoticon was being a pest, playing with my curtains and trying to see how durable that internet router was, really.
So finally I had to give up doing anything productive and play with her. Her favorite game being chase the string. Despite having really fucked up eyes she was nailing that string. Like she had some personal mafia like vendetta against that motherfucker.
That was until I realized that she was able to catch it because she could hear it. I was hoping that when I took her to vet in the morning I would be able to tell him that we were totally seeing improvements and maybe we should you know, stop having these weekly appointments because I am totally running out of fucking money.
Watching my poor cat flail blindly at the air while I swung the string back and forth right in front of her eyes, I reflected on the fact that it did not appear we were making any progress here. Also, her frustration with the indoor life was beginning to show. She was sleeping more, eating more and finding more ways to attempt to dive her kitty self through screened windows like some sort of kitty shaped rocket.
I felt bad for her and strangely, even worse for me. Since Emoticon was not going to have to start making quality of life choices here. Finally it got to be too much to let her win all the time, because that shit was totally getting depressing so I put her back in Jack's dog crate and then I spent some time staring at the wall thinking that poverty was a whole less The Noble Simple Good Folk and more like watching the things you love suffer and knowing that the price to heal them might be too damn high.
Wow. I am sorry. This shit is getting dark.
So then I noticed that the dog was really digging at his rump and then I came over to look and found a horrible open weeping sore there. Then I called the husband in and he was all like, we have to take him to the vet. And I was all like, ha ha why not? It's not like work has been almost nothing and we have been eating spaghetti every meal or anything.
After a while the storm quit and we all went to bed. This is also one of the times that I wish my mind would draw a veil over, but it didn't and I couldn't and I kept hoping that I wasn't crying because I still had hope and not that I was emotionally dead inside because I was going to have to sign the death warrant on my own cat because treating two animals was so out of the budget I might as well have been trying to book a cruise through the antarctic.
And then of course shit just got worse. Because at 1:24am I woke up covered in sweat and spent the next half hour throwing up uncontrollably in the toilet. I remember thinking, very clearly at the time, that stress really, really fucking sucks.
Like a whole lot.
So the next morning we loaded up the car and made our queasy way down the mountain to the vet. I did not throw up, but Jack did so only a 50-50 on that win there. So we get to the vet and Jack freaks out and hides under the chair and Emoticon is curled in a ball shaking and won't look at me and I am wondering if I have a complete breakdown in the waiting room who in there is going to judge the shit out of me for it.
So then they call us back and everyone with four legs freaks the shit out and I really want to freak the shit out but someone has to lead this parade and they ask us if we need any more meds and I blurt out the one's we are low on and Scott gives me that look that says I-don't-want-to-influence-your-decision-here-but-we-can't-keep-taking-this-cat-to-the-vet-week-after-week-but-I-don't-want-to-get-blamed-later-when-the- grief-names-start-flying-because-I-don't-want-to-be-called-king-cat-murderer-or-cat-slaying-monster-at-some-point-in-the-future.
Married people can say a whole lot with a look, is what I am trying to get at here.
Anyway the vet asks who we want to look at first and Scott says the cat and then I dump her on the table and the vet does his magic eye light wand thing again and asks vet questions and then he tells me that while her eyes might still look gunky, that he is seeing a lot of new healing vessels and they are a lot clearer and then he does some test where he moves his fingers towards her eyes to see if she reacts and she does and then he tells me that I don't need to come in any more and we can cut it down to two meds twice a day and that I can just come back and pick up meds for her and just treat her until her eyes were clear because both of them look like they will heal.
And then I saw angels. And golden rays of sunshine. In the exam room.
And then I shot Scott a look that said ha-didn't-I-tell-you-that-this-would-work-out-and-that-I-wasn't-going-to-give-up-on-this-cat-and-you-can-suck-it.
Then he looked at the dog and gave us some meds to reduce the itchiness and some antibiotics for his weird skin thing and then we were on our way. I was pleased to find out that the visit didn't cost more then the last time even though we had to take a look at the dog this round.
Then we got home and pilled the dog which I was thinking was going to look just like that scene from Jaws were what's-his-face shoots the oxygen tank and the sharks head explodes, only replace 'shark' with 'dog' and 'oxygen tank' with 'pills.'
And also localized to my kitchen.
Oh and the tiny hard antibiotics were 43$ and the giant motherfucking capsules were 11$ so guess which ones we had to shove down his throat? Luckily Scott just opened his mouth and shoved it in and Jack didn't know what to do and then before he could really think things through in his tiny dog mind Scott offered him a treat with the half dose in it and then he took it but bit right down on the pill. The he spit the whole damn thing out, looked at it on the ground for a second, shrugged and ate it. Then I got him to drink some water to prove he wasn't going to hork them up again.
Which I think makes Jack the best dog ever in the history of ever.