*sigh* Okay–first of all, I’m having a cat problem.
Dennis Quaid has been looking skankier and skankier–I finally caved and took him to the bank I mean the vets today, knowing that after fixing my PWT ticket, the last thing our bank account could take is a vet bill from hell. I told them seriously that although DQ is a definitely a million dollar kitty, the most we could afford right at this moment was $250. I was pretty much told that $250 MIGHT cover his first round of tests. They took a look at his teeth, told me that there was something ‘unusual’ about the lesions in his mouth, and I said, “Unusual sounds like at least $1500, and we can’t do that.” And I felt bad. I mean HORRIBLE. Because we can do that–but we’d have to give up vacation and a finished bathroom to do that. I looked at the kitty–and trust me folks, he’s a good kitty–and thought, “Is this what I’ve become? A mother who would sacrifice her cat so she can take the kids to San Diego?” Except, San Diego’s paid for, and the cat is not. We have been working our asses off not to open another credit card–mostly because we wouldn’t be able to make the payments, and I’m looking at my kitty, thinking about all of my short sightedness and all the things I could have not bought if it would have meant I’d have $1500 to pay for the damned cat’s dental work.
And I couldn’t face the decision today. I asked them for something that would ease his pain and help his immune system, thinking that most creatures, when faced with the loss of pain, will start healing themselves. I told them we’d meet back in a month and see if maybe a little bit of help might make all the difference. The vet looked at me like I was a horrible cat mommy, and I am, and I took the poor guy home–and then bathed him because he pissed himself in the cage–and started to wonder about how seriously screwed my priorities are.
Because I do have a royalty check coming in at the end of August that might (MIGHT) cover his dental work–but I was planning on putting it back in to the book business–either buying books for the book signing I’ve already committed to, (Horror-Con, 2008, Scottish Rite Temple, Sacramento CA, Sept. 26-27) or publishing Bitter Moon II–maybe both, since I’m probably making a profit from the investment in the books.
So I have a month of pain meds and antibiotics in which to decide if I’m a horrible awful person, or if I do have a soul after all.
And to make this dilemma even more fun? While I was laying the little kids down for their nap, the vet called, and told my older son that euthenasia was probably the best option. Now this sort of pissed me off, because shouldn’t mommy be the one telling Son that her selfish pursuit of her publishing dreams is going to result in a dead kitty? And seriously–the cat is STILL ALIVE. And yes, his teeth hurt him, but he’s still eating and he’s still drinking and he’s still getting around, and honestly? My feet hurt and I occasionally crap blood, but if anyone tried to put me down because these things aren’t getting better, I’d be seriously PISSED OFF–wouldn’t you?
So here I am–wondering how I’m going to pay for my next book, and feeling bad because that next book might mean one more pathetic body in our little weedy graveyard in the front of the house.
How did I get to be Doctor Death anyway? It’s not how I started out. I started out wanting a cat. I like cats. Cats are independent, and they’re affectionate and they’re entertainment. Until I had kids, I thought that cats were the world’s greatest nurturing commitment to the universe. But now I have kids, and it’s looking like that trip to San Diego might really trump the cat, and I’m not sure when my soul became negotiable for a chance to get the fuck out of town and buy more crap to trip over.
*sigh* Personally, I might want to consider a long term investment in a five-year’s supply of kitty morphine, because he sure was a happy camper when we gave him that, and I’m pretty sure that even addicting the cat to morphine is less expensive than anesthesia and dental surgery–besides the fact that the whole wad of illegal cash wouldn’t be due right before school starts and vacation starts and my first chance at infiltrating the local book circuit EVER is due. And a stoned kitty is better than a dead kitty, right?
The book store I’m aligned with has already put my name out on the net–not that it’s a big draw, mind you, but they’ve put themselves out for me, and that’s sort of an “I gave my word” thing. Who knows–maybe I’ll find a kitty drug pusher at Horror-Con–I mean, the Goddess has got to have a plan on this one, right? Because right now I am fresh out of options.