The vet concluded that there could be two possibilities. One, she ate something and it’s stuck in her little cat guts. Two, she’s got a disease like pancreatitis. Either option would require further testing, and we should “get her tested right now…something is very wrong with this cat.” Then the vet left us (Eve and Lucy were with me) alone in the exam room with the vet tech. As it turns out, this tech doubled as the sales manager who informed me that the tests alone would cast $1,400. If she needed surgery or intense medication, that additional amount could be “as little as $1,000, or more.”
With that information, I packed Waffles into her carrier, tried to explain to the kids why we weren’t getting tests, and took a very sick cat home to, I don’t know, get better? Get much worse? Who knows.
What I did know was that spending thousands was not going to happen. The question of if we could afford it wasn’t the question–it was should we. And for my ethics and worldview, I can’t spend that much no matter how broken my heart is. However, if you spend thousands, I hold no judgment. As Hemmingway wrote, “So far, about morals, I know only that what is moral is what you feel good after and what is immoral is what you feel bad after.” Basically, you do you. Pertinent note: Hemingway’s home is filled with polydactyl (six-toed) cats. You can still visit them today.
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The day we brought Waffles home, I became a weirder version of myself. I’ve always had pets, and I cared for most of them, but Waffles is different. I’m going to forgo multiple paragraphs of self-involved psychoanalysis and just get to the punchlines: I was in a dark place, and Waffles was very sweet. Our family was in a dark season, and Waffles made us happy. She doesn’t need me and only visits when she wants to, and I like to be wanted. I get addicted and/or obsessed very easily and liking a cat is a healthy outlet. She’s cute, and I bought her a little blue bell that she wears so I don’t lose her. I love her.
Tuesday, 4:05am
I am in the den now, taking the graveyard shift, and unable to sleep because I’ve been so nervous. Waffles is walking on my laptop keyboard while I attempt to write this. She is demanding that I focus on her need for being scratched under the collar. If I don’t scratch, she makes a lot of noise which I worry will wake the house. So I pay attention, scratch her, and she purrs. It seems as though she just got into something, felt bad for 24 hours, and is back in business.
She’s not sick anymore. The internet was right. And guess what, internet,? You’re about to get a lot more cat content from a guy who lost his mind over an orange tabby cat. But you know what? That’s ok. Because there are plenty of things in life that require moderation. But scratching a needy cat isn’t one of those things. I will always have indulgences. The key is picking the right/cutest ones.
