Most longtime readers know that I am neither an animal lover nor a public crier. I had terrible pet experiences growing up and hate showing vulnerability in front of strangers. Imagine my shock when I burst into tears at the vet’s office! Here’s the skinny.
Our 11-year-old cat, Ginger, has been acting funny for a couple of months. It started with a four-day hunger strike followed by occasional urination on the living room carpet. Then we noticed she was eating the fake rocks in the bottom of our gas fireplace. We decided to switch her food from cheap dry stuff to Fancy Feast wet salmon, and immediately saw improvement. But last week, the litterbox boycott began again, so we made her an appointment to see what was what.
The first part went smoothly, though I looked ridiculous wearing gardening gloves hauling her in to Banfield with my makeshift carrier of two inverted laundry baskets (personally, I thought I’d been extremely clever). A physical evaluation revealed little, but the doctor wanted to run labs to rule out a UTI or anemia. For 10 minutes, Ginger meow/screamed as if she were being fileted alive while they pinned her down to do the bloodwork. Luckily, I had brought my youngest with me for moral support. Between the two of us, we were able to stay mostly calm.
Then we received the results: “She’s in the last stages of renal failure, nothing can be done, I can recommend a wonderful company for in-home euthanizing …”
Cue full-on sobs. Apparently, I do love my cat, and I don’t give two turds about who knows it.