She's an old girl

My Connie Cat is so lively, it's easy to forget she's 13 years old, or 68 in human years. Saturday's trip to the vet brought it into sharp relief.

I knew she was going to need dental work. I put $2,000 of my tax refund aside for this purpose. It's not going to be enough.

Because of her age and her health issues, simply getting teeth pulled is not simple. Today was the geriatric blood panel ($370). It was only the first step in the process. Next, she will have an electrocardiogram – needed because of her heart murmur. Finally, she can have the teeth pulled. Now we're closer to $3,000.

No, I'm not happy about this. But after those two bad teeth are gone, she will be more comfortable. And healthier. Those raw gums can be a gateway to infection, and in a senior cat, infections can get serious quickly. 

Plus, we're in this together. While I can intellectualize concern about the money and ramifications of anesthesia, she is going to be in terror throughout this process. This morning, when she realized I was putting her in the carrier, she gave out this sad, plaintive howl, as though if she asked, she could dissuade me. When I was checking her in at the vet, she began to sing because she couldn't see me. During the exam – which included having her abdomen palpated and blood drawn – she was silent, distant, terrified. Granted, she was over it within a half hour of being home with Roy Hobbs. But it was heartbreaking to witness in real time.

She hates being outside. She hates strangers touching her. Every trip to the vet is a torment she can't understand, and this dental adventure will include three vet trips. So as unhappy as I am, she is that frightened. But we will get through this together, Connie and I.

Photo by Sueda Güzeldere on Unsplash