A Memory from the Vet's

Don't worry, no one dies.

TW: pet sickness

It’s 2018 and Mister is hissing from the emergency vet’s exam table.

He looks like the saddest Little Bo Peep ever, his tiny head in a cone and his shaved, blanketed body in a plastic basin. Last night, he had stomach surgery and we are both exhausted.

I’m still unsure if surgery was the right choice. The first vet was 65% sure he had an intestinal blockage, the second thought he might have an abnormally large hairball that he’d eventually poop out, but the third seemed so sure. There’s something in his system and we have to get it out.

She showed me an X-Ray confidently, but all I could focus on was how tiny his stomach was. Like a kidney bean.

Surgery was the answer. It would save his life.

After she delivered this news, she led me to a room where I could think and cry away from the barking in the waiting room. Mister wheezed angrily from his carrier. I couldn’t stop apologizing to him.

We were left in that room for a while.

Eventually, I got up to pace, taking a closer look at the dog and cat pictures that plastered the walls. There were handwritten cards, flapping open to be read.

“Dear Emergency Vet Clinic, thank you for taking care of our Elmer as he crossed the rainbow bridge …”

My head hurt, my eyes hurt.

“We love you, Emergency Vet Clinic! Thank you for giving Snappy a beautiful last week of her life …”

No, no, no, NO.

“I loved you for your whole life, and I’ll miss you for the rest of mine.
Minnie 2009 - 2015”

Slobbery dogs grinned from photos, cats were perfect loaves. There were paw prints, ink on paper like a fingerprint. This was a death room. This had to be the place where they give you the worst news. And Mister was in here.

I agreed to the surgery. It cost $6,000.

So here we are, 24 hours later in a new room, a success room.

Mister is pissed off but he’s alive and I hold his whole basin to my chest, singing to him and telling him he did a good job. He doesn’t know, he’s a cat.

There’s a trophy for vet excellence next to the box of doctor gloves. All of the cards in this room are thank you notes. There are framed photos of dogs as puppies and as grownups side by side. All of the cats look happy, too. There’s no “In the Arms of the Angels” playing in the background of these pictures.

How can you ever know if you’ve made the right choice?

If these rooms were random, then the display could be a sign. Mister and I are on the right track, every cent is worth it. If the devastating dead dog room was some evil ploy to trap me into paying thousands of dollars for a surgery on a sweet baby kitty who didn’t really need it, then my faith in humanity will plummet. Maybe the right decision isn’t about the surgery. Maybe it’s about how to look at this memory.

So here’s the version where I decide to look at the rooms as an encouraging wink from the universe: Mister’s surgery is a success. For a cat who can’t understand English, much less anesthesia, he’s in a pretty good mood. I hold him close, singing quietly and whispering that I’ll take him home soon so he can sit in the window and watch birds. I’m worried about his pain, but I notice we’re surrounded by photos of happy dogs and cats, emotional thank you letters written by their besotted owners. Thank you for your expertise. Thank you for your generosity.

Thank you for saving my baby.