Love Your Pet--and Vet

Sometime early Sunday morning, the cats that call the Weekly's southcentral bureau home knocked over a houseplant. It should be noted this plant, in a large, terra cotta clay pot, was placed on a high stand, just so Buster and Maeby could not get to it. Yet they did.

We discovered the mess when we woke up Sunday morning. We soon after discovered that Buster had cut up one of his rear feet pretty bad. And off to the emergency animal hospital we went.

This was the third incident that led me to this particular animal hospital. The first time was when the southcentral bureau's original cat, Beavis, died of kidney failure. The last time was when Maeby developed a raging respiratory-tract infection, after bringing home a nasty bug from the Humane Society. In other words, I know the emergency animal hospital fairly well. And I hate the place.

I love the fact that it's there, and I think the people who work there are generally saints. The veterinarians, assistants and others go to work there every day knowing that they're going to have to deal with a lot of sick and injured animals--not to mention their frantic owners.

I couldn't handle working there. While I was there on Sunday, I saw a cavalcade of animals in distress that almost had me in tears. I spoke to one older gentlemen whose animal was in having thorns removed after an unfortunate encounter with a cactus. There was also a cat that would not stop drooling, a dog that was pooping blood and--most heartbreaking--an upset mother and daughter with three puppies. The mother and four other puppies had died, and they wanted to know why.

It broke my heart. I was so glad to be able to take my relatively healthy kitten home, albeit after stitches and a $580 vet bill. (Thank goodness for pet insurance.) It also made me realize that compared to what those folks at the animal hospital do, my job is pretty damn easy.

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