On Friday afternoon I overheard Allen talking on the phone. Our cat "Leila" is a beautiful but overweight Maine Coon who we love. A neighbor called us to say that they thought her leg was hurt. We took her to the Village Vets to see Doctor Franklin. Allen was a little weepy while we waited to go over the x-rays, and I told her that even if it did turn out to be a broken leg there was no way it was going to be more than $600, they'll fix it, and Leila will be fine, worst case scenario. They'll put a cast on her, we'll get a buncha laughs, we'd be out $600, all done. It sucks, because money's tight for us right now, just like everyone we know, and after months of doing shows or other jobs on the weekend to make extra revenue, we're starting to feel like we finally have a handle on things.

Doctor Franklin walked in. I hadn't seen her since Gus' kidney failure, and I was surprised how small she looked without the fifteen babies she apparently had. I imagined her doctor telling her, "No! Too small for babies! Get dog." Apparently, her imaginary OBGYN is a Russian cartoon character.
Her tiny stature made her wide eyes look even wider. "Okay, I have some bad news," she began. "I am so sorry about Leila, but her leg
is broken. It looks like she fell, or jumped down from something a little too high up." Doctor Franklin brought the X-rays up on the screen, and mentally I said goodbye to my beloved six hundred dollars.
Doctor Franklin pointed to the monitor. "So, if you look at the x-rays, you see where her calcaneous is broken. Pins here... wires from the... transplanting bone cells from the tibia..." Doctor Franklin's words were just blurring together and I got dizzy from all the veterinarian mumbo jumbo as it was becoming uncomfortably clear that this situation may be shimmying into the $650 range. Years ago, Allen had almost the exact same foot injury as Leila, so she understood all the procedures much better than I did. I was counting on her to pay attention and listen out for suspicious terms like "solid gold femur" or "bionics" as she nodded to the weird deja vu of hearing a doctor tell her all this again. I just sort of zoned out and put my arm around her and waited for the part about how long until our cat would be running around tearing squirrels apart again. I mean, she jumped from a porch or something. It's not like she'd been hit by a car.
"Three thousand dollars."
Something went off in my brain. "Howmanyclowns? What?" I resisted the urge to get a glass of water from the waiting room, bring it back to the office, and spit it out in wide-eyed shock. Okay Jason, time to play it cool. You have to be verrrrry casual about what you're going to say next. The next words out of your mouth could very well be the ones that Allen tells all her friends after the breakup. And she has lots of friends.
"So..." I started, giving my most convincing
Psshhw! Well-we-were-about-to-buy-her-a-three-grand-cat-condo-anyways-look. "What... are our
other options?"
"Amputation." Doctor Franklin's eyes got wider somehow. Yikes. I was thinking "cast" or maybe just something that didn't involve discarded NASA technology. Without moving my head I glanced down at Allen. Her eyes were tearing up again, or maybe they never stopped. Now was probably not the time to tell her about how much cats actually
love amputation very much, and that I was pretty sure Leila had a birthday coming up.
"Another option is just to do nothing," Doctor Franklin continued. I wondered if my eyebrows went up, or if anyone saw them if they did. "She would never be able to walk on the leg normally, and she would just... sort of...
drag... it behind her." Doctor Franklin looked at me and for a brief moment gave an ever-so-subtle pantomime of the Hunchback of Notre Dame, then stopped herself. I furrowed my brow and looked at the floor.
"Well, I'll leave you two to discuss it. Again, I am so sorry."
There was a quiet in the room. I thought about $3000. I presume there is some very real law of human psychology that states that unexpected expenses will always cause a person to think about what they could have done with the money that they will now be spending just to get things back to normal. A trip to France perhaps. The biggest television they've ever seen. Good lord, if the damn cat hadn't jumped off the neighbor's privacy wall, we could just rent an inflatable jumping castle for a year. We could have gotten a trick cat from the circus.
I looked at Allen, and thought about Leila. I thought about our cat dragging her leg behind her as she hobbled underneath our 85" television. I thought about Leila limping out to the mailbox to see a postcard with a photograph of us waving from the front of the Eiffel Tower or staring out the window, watching us jump around in our giant yard castle with Circus Cat. I felt like a dirtbag for entertaining my thoughts of "what if we just saved the money instead?", law of human psychology or not.
I guess I never considered myself to be the kind of person who would spend an infinite amount of money on a cat operation. As much as I'm definitely an animal lover, I feel that I'm pretty pragmatic about such things, and the fact of the matter is, that cat refuses to work even
part-time. I have insurance for the dog, but I guess I always just assumed if a cat needed three thousand dollars to live that I'd just have it put to sleep because, you know... I'm a dog person, and it's only a cat. Let's not get crazy here.
But I found out that you don't really know until you're there. I love that cat, and I realize I couldn't live with myself if we didn't spend whatever it took for her to be okay again.
Allen looked at me. "I guess we should talk about our options."
"No, we'll just get the operation."
"Where are we going to get three thousand dollars?"
The office smelled like Lysol and dog treats as the x-ray flickered away and the computer went to screen saver. I squeezed her tight. "It'll be all right. We'll find it somewhere."

We checked out and received a bill for $550 for the day's x-rays, pain meds and consultation.