Over the last three weeks, our pets have been tag-teaming to see which of them can cost us the most at the vet.
The cat started it, because of course she did.
Or perhaps she felt it had been several months since the puppy ate something he shouldn’t and decided it was her turn to give us cause for concern.
Either way, as we were waving goodbye to a friend one sunny Sunday afternoon, she took the opportunity to limp out of the lavender hedge and begin crawling towards a neighbour’s car.
My cat has a very definite approach to injury and illness. She will dramatically allow you to catch sight of her before crawling away, every fibre of her being screaming, “Leave me alone to die!”
Obviously, we don’t.
Having dragged the poor beast to the vet, I was informed that she had been bitten in a fight; she’s sixteen; shouldn’t she be too old to be scrapping? and needed antibiotics and anti-inflammatory medication.
The vet paused. She looked at the cat, then at me and my somewhat scarred appearance.
“How is she at taking tablets?”
I may have winced.
The last time she needed tablets, she was three years old. It took two grown adults, cost four towels their lives and required us to wear motorbike armour just to get the things into her.
I can only assume my expression conveyed some of this because the vet nodded sympathetically and prescribed a liquid that could be mixed into her food.
Wonderful.
This cat can go for weeks barely sniffing at the food we give her. If she objects to what is being offered, she will happily go outside and hunt mice instead. She doesn’t eat the entire mouse—just the head. I think she likes the crunch. She then deposits the remains carefully on the floor, positioned so that you discover them with a bare foot before you’ve had the chance to put your slippers on.
Still, I scooped up the animal, the medicine and the first three-figure vet bill of the month and dragged everything home.
I bought expensive cat food in multiple brands and flavours because, as any cat owner will tell you, a cat will enthusiastically devour a particular meal exactly once and then refuse to acknowledge it as food ever again.
Then, thinking more clearly, I bought some canned tuna (which stinks) and used that to mask the medicine.
To my relief, the cat approved of the tuna and ate both it and the medication. Within a few days, she progressed from “at death’s door” to “where is the wretch who bit me? I demand a second round.”
Unfortunately, I can only assume the puppy resented the fact that the cat was getting tuna and he wasn’t, because the following Friday he decided to pivot while running at full speed and dislocate his shoulder.
I will be forever grateful that we have a vet I can call and say, “My dog is in pain,” and their immediate response is, “Can you get here in ten minutes?”
I got there in five.
He was given anti-inflammatories, painkillers and a cone of shame. I was instructed not to walk him or allow him to run or jump for a week.
I looked down at him.
He immediately tried to jump into my arms.
My only question for the vet was, “How?”
Apparently, that was my problem.
So I scooped up my puppy, his medication and the second three-figure vet bill of the month and went home.
Giving medicine to a dog is considerably easier than giving it to a cat. I had to give him a tablet, so I put it inside a chicken nugget.
He ate it.
That’s it. That’s the entire story.
After two weeks of poorly animals, I was finally beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel when the dog came inside whimpering, shaking his head and scratching at his ear until it bled.
After consulting with my husband, we established that the most likely culprit was a grass seed lodged in his ear.
Great.
We couldn’t remove it ourselves, and the dog was making himself bleed. Having no better ideas, I wrestled him back into the cone of shame while my husband called the vet.
Again.
It hadn’t even been four days since his last visit.
By the time I took him back, he had waged war on the cone.
He won.
Its remains were scattered across the lawn.
His shoulder was healing, but because he was already taking anti-inflammatories, he needed ear drops rather than steroids. Getting ear drops into a dog who is never still requires two strong adults, a handful of treats and the precise timing of a Formula One pit crew.
This time, it wasn’t a three-figure bill.
It was £90.
Yay.
I then discovered that we could upgrade his pet-club membership from Normal Muppet—which covers vaccinations and two vet visits a year—to Advanced Muppet, which covers all his vet visits.
The dog is now on Advanced Muppet.
