Reason # 495 I Will Not Have Children

Friday I spent most of the afternoon at the emergency vet’s, because poor little Sugar was puking her little guts out, and feeling very embarrassed about it, thus leading her to choose the most inopportune places to leave little puddles of kitty puke. (Under the bed! Behind the sofa! Under the TV stand!)

Alarmed, I took her to the Very Important Emergency Vet, where they did exactly nothing to make me feel better. Sugar lost her kitty shit, between being sick and being poked by needles in a less-than-coddling-way, she was frantic. The vet took some blood (goodbye, honeymoon!) and asked gravely if I thought she should take x-rays and an ultrasound. (Goodbye vacation ever again EVER.)

Um, I don’t know, jackass. Aren’t you the vet?

So she explained that if there was a blockage, or something, that it wouldn’t show up in the bloodwork, they’d need to see it on an ultrasound, because it could be very dangerous and explode. On the other hand, it could just be a huge tumor, that they could see on an x-ray, and while Sugar may only have seconds to live, they could prescribe me some medicine for a million dollars to treat it.

What’s a kitty momma to do?

My gut told me that there was no blockage. The vet kept asking if Sugar had eaten anything she wasn’t supposed to, a toy, or something like that. And I said, “No, that would be Tatum. He’s part goat. Sugar is more... particular. She really only likes dry kibble. In a porcelain bowl.”

So I looked at Sugar who was on the verge of scratching her own eyes out (her attempt at scratching mine having thus-far failed) and I decided that no medical procedure was worth putting her through the extreme panic she appeared to be going through. So I paid a couple hundred dollars for the bloodwork, and took Sugar home.

I called The Funasaurus in tears, wondering if I had made the right decision.

“They wanted to charge you WHAT? We don’t need to pay thousands of dollars for an x-ray to tell us she has the KITTY FLU, baby.” he reassured me.

Sure enough, the next morning, Sugar was running around, eating, drinking, and terrorizing Tatum with her back-from-the-vet smell. She was also Pissed Off that I was trying to feed her medicine when, obviously, she was SO over it.

The vet called the next day to see if she was dead yet from her lack of x-rays and ultrasounds, and I told her that no, in fact, Sugar seemed perkier than ever, probably because I had bribed her with a copious amount of treats from the supermarket, the kitty equivalent of about a dozen Big Macs. And also, since she was doing so great, could I stop giving her the medicine? The vet said no, it’d be better to continue the bi-daily dosage for the next seven days. She’s a vet, but I get the feeling she doesn’t give cats medicine that often. Twice a day for seven days? Are you crazy? I don’t have that many fingers to lose!

But, dutifully, and fingerless, the dance of medicine admission has since taken place twice a day since then, and Sugar grows more hateful with each dose. But as long as she’s eating and drinking while being hateful, I can deal.



Sugar says: You will all be punished.