Dealing With Vet Leaves Him, His Wallet as Nervous as Kittens

If members of your family tell you they’re sick as a dog, you’d best pray it isn’t so.

Or, anyway, not as sick as a cat.

Or at least not as sick as one of our cats was over the holidays.

This animal, whose name I’m not even sure of, became uncharacteristically lethargic a few days after Christmas, exhibiting little interest in eating, or much of anything else.

What he did eat reappeared in odd areas of the house, leading to a great deal of concern among the kids, particularly in my older son, who wasn’t feeling well himself.

It became obvious that both my son and the cat needed medical attention, so I made appointments with our family doctor and with the vet.

The family doctor diagnosed my son as having a severe case of laryngitis and prescribed antibiotics and lots of rest.

The vet was much more ominous in his diagnosis, warning about an AIDS-like virus sweeping the feline world and asking questions about the cat’s personal life--intimate items that what’s-his-name certainly has never shared with me. I mean, the truth is I barely know him.

“We had better keep him for a few days and hope for the best,” he said. “I’ll have to do some tests.

“The problem is the regular lab isn’t open New Year’s Day, so I’ll have to personally run the blood samples and stuff over to the emergency lab.

“Which I’m happy to do.”

My wallet did a little involuntary jump.

I waited until the kids were out of the room and asked something I would never ask about their care, especially in an emergency situation.

“Uh, can you give me some kind of estimate?”

“Well,” he replied, obviously not understanding the question, “if all the tests are negative and we’re talking about just an intestinal disorder, I would hope we can have him home in a few days.

“Of course, if it’s something more serious. . . .” He sighed, and suddenly looked very helpless.

“Let’s just cross that bridge when we come to it. Let’s try to be positive, shall we?”

He apparently had misinterpreted the little beads of perspiration that had appeared on my upper lip, so I tried a more direct approach.

“Uh, I don’t want to sound uncaring or indelicate, but in terms of cost, uh, could you give me some idea, uh, of. . . .”

He stared out the window for a few minutes (possibly, but I can’t be absolutely sure, to determine what kind of car I was driving).

“Well, at this point, of course, it’s hard to say, but if you’d like, I could do some figuring.”

He left the room for a few minutes and reappeared with a piece of paper he handed the receptionist, who then spent an inordinate amount of time with her calculator.

She handed me a yellow printed sheet with items checked--”fecal flotation,” “blood test,” “medications” and “in-patient accomd.,” among others.

The bottom line--actually, the third from the bottom line--was somewhere between $135 and $360, or what used to be a down payment on a congressman.

“You will keep me informed at each stage of his treatment?” I asked.

“Yes, why?” he replied, raising his eyebrows slightly, as if he expected me to say something like, “Well, when you get to $200. . . .” and then yank my tie straight up, jerk my neck to the side, cross my eyes and make a gagging sound.

Instead, I repeated his suggestion that we cross that bridge when we get to it.

He called two days later. “Good news,” he said. “Your cat only has an intestinal infection and he can go home Tuesday morning.”

The upshot is the cat is fine now, or as fine as $192 can make a cat. My son is better, also. His bill was $35, plus $16 for some antibiotics.

There’s probably a message there somewhere, but I’m not sure I’m in the mood to go into it. At least not right now.

I mean, after all, we are talking about a cat here, although I have to admit that he’s changed since his illness and become something he never was before.

Valuable.