Let me ask a hypothetical question. Say you have a really old cat. I mean really old. This animal is so old you have to pick it up and hold it next to the food bowl before it starts to eat. It’s so old, the cat’s idea of play is to vaguely wave a paw in the general direction of a toy. I’m saying people just have to look at the poor animal and they can immediately see, holy crap, that’s an old cat. Now say this cat starts to pee all over the house because it can’t always find the litter box, and you notice that there is blood in the urine.
Here’s the question: Do you take the animal to the vet, or just take it out into the backyard with a shovel, and dig a hole?
Now, before PETA starts rioting on my front lawn for even suggesting a painless, blunt trauma, euthanization of a cat, let me just clarify. I did end up taking her to the vet.
But she hated every second of it. We both did, actually.
The cat, Sheba, started yowling the moment she saw the carrying crate. She would have run away when I brought it out, but she was too tired to move from the spot she had been sitting in for the past two hours. (Did I mention this cat is old?)
I put Sheba in the crate and placed her in the car. She immediately started to throw up and pee in the carrier from panic. She panted and cried during the entire thirty-minute drive to the vet. I’m surprised the ride itself didn’t put her out of her misery.
When we arrived, I found clumps of hair in the carrier. Her fur was falling out because she was so stressed out from the trip. I wondered if, by the time I got her back home, she was going to look like one of those naked, loose-skinned cats you occasionally see on television (because no sane person would ever actually own one). You know the ones, I’m talking about. The cats that look like a cross between a newly hatched baby bird and a malformed demon from Hell.
Fortunately, that didn’t happen. She still has (most of) her fur.
At the veterinarian’s office, Sheba was pulled out of the crate and given a full examination, including taking her temperature (no, not oral) and stabbing her with needles to draw blood.
The doctor wanted a urine sample as well, but because Sheba had already peed in her carrier, they took her into a back room, kept her in a cage for two hours (not an exaggeration) so her bladder would fill back up, then used a catheter to get a sample. You can imagine just how much the cat enjoyed this whole process.
When the vet finished torturing Sheba, it was my turn.
“That’ll be $700, Mr. Wilbanks.”
$700!
I don’t pay that much when I take one of my own family members to the doctor. Why are cats so expensive? It’s insane. Especially when you can wander down to any animal shelter in the city and get a new kitten for free. Who sets these prices?
I don’t know who felt more violated by the trip; me or the cat.
I stuffed Sheba back into the carrier and brought her home. When I got into the house, I opened the door of the carrier and the cat had just enough energy to step out of it and lie down in the middle of the hallway. I poked her with a finger just to make sure she was still breathing.
She was.
The next day, I got a phone call from the vet. The vet told me Sheba had a urinary tract infection and it needed to be treated with antibiotics. I got a prescription (Another $100. Whee!) and brought it home.
The medication was a white liquid that needed to be sucked up into a dropper and squirted into the cat’s mouth. Twice every day.
For fifteen days.
I don’t know if you have ever tried to force something into a cat’s mouth but let me assure you it is not an easy or pleasant experience. Those furry little monsters have some nasty sharp teeth and they aren’t afraid to use them. I’m sure it’s no fun for the cat either. I can only imagine if twice a day for two weeks someone dragged me out from under the bed and stuck a turkey baster in my mouth. I might start wondering if simply crawling into a corner somewhere and letting death claim me might not be the better option.
Which brings us back to my original question. Did I do the right thing by dragging that poor old cat to the vet and putting her through two weeks of misery for a treatment that might extend her life for another sixteen seconds? I’m not totally sure.
I’m thinking about it from my own perspective as well. When I get so old that I start peeing all over the house and someone notices blood in my urine, I don’t know if I want doctors poking me with needles and making my last days absolutely miserable.
I’m just saying that maybe we should give the whole backyard and shovel thing some serious thought.
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