09.22.2003 || 12:32

Ou¢h, that really $tings

So yeah, we took Tarot to the vet to-day. The vet was pretty nice and played well with the cat -- unlike the *last* vet I took him to, and to whom I'll never entrust one of my babies again. Tarot behaved well and pretty much let the vet do whatever he wanted, which is Tarot's style. Then the vet started outlining what he'd like to do to a) help the little guy out, and b) find out what's wrong with him. The more he spoke, the more I saw dollar signs flying out the window, until he finally printed out an estimate and handed it to me. I took it, looked at it, and just started crying. I couldn't even speak. Finally, I swallowed and asked for a minute alone with Tarot and Mystie so we could decide what to do. Of course, I couldn't get any of this actually *out,* aside from something along the lines of 'one minute pleaznrk...'

when he came back in, all I'd managed to decide was that I should really, *really* stop crying, but he suggested a much less costly course of treatment that included a shot, a re-hydration injection, and us pumping pills and schmutz down Tarot's throat for a week. In other words, treating his symptoms while knowing nothing about what's wrong with him.

What else could I do? I can't afford a half-grand. Not with my current job. Already, to-day's visit erased my dentist appointment funds for next week, not to mention the Bell bill I got to-day.

Fuck, what I wouldn't give for pet healthcare. Really.

||Gods save the Queen,

back || forth

older shite

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