Back in 2001, I paid the worst vet in Clemson, South Carolina $15 for Puddin', which included all his shots and 1.5 neuterings. Because during the second neutering surgery, the vet had a great deal of trouble finding Puddy's balls.
These days, however, our 7-year old cat is worth $444 on the open market. Or, at least that's what we were charged by the vet for keeping him alive after we found him panting and covered in bloody spit-froth this morning. They did not build him better, faster, or stronger, but they did apply some corticosteroids, antibiotics, and diuretics. And the wiped the bloody froth off him, which was thoughtful and made the ride home more bearable.
What was wrong? We have no idea. Apparently, there is not a Dr. House for cats (Dr. CatHouse?) in our neighborhood. Possibilities include eating something nasty or biting a wire while he was trapped in the ceiling yesterday, scaring the crap out of himself and having a panic attack while trapped in the ceiling yesterday, or just plain ol' asthma.
That's right-- I may have paid $444 for an asthma attack. We just don't know. According to the 3 forerunners in the diagnosis department, my cat is either an idiot, a scaredy cat, or a dork. Yay.
Here is my rendition of my cat as a dork with glasses, a fanny pack, a pocket protector, an inhaler, and a kick-me sign:
So there's one more reason to make fun of me. Not only is my cat a pussy, but i'm stupid enough to pay $444 for an asthma attack.