I Just Want to Take Him Home

I just got back from taking my cat to the vet. Yes, it's the same one that bit me. It's the one I inherited from my parents. I took it in for some blood work and several vaccines, and to get a microchip put in. I stopped short from getting the last vaccine because I didn't want to put him through everything at once.

I knew something was wrong as soon as they took him in the back. No, there's nothing wrong with the cat; it's with me. I was tapping my foot, and looking around, and feeling kind of nauseous, and I realized that I was really worried. God help me if I ever have kids, because I just couldn't take it, knowing that they were poking needles in him, and that he was so scared that he wasn't even growling at them when we weighed him, and that I wasn't even there when they were doing the bloodwork. I started thinking that it was stupid to be so worried, but I couldn't stop it. Then I started thinking about why it was worrying me so much. I'm putting in the microchip because so far he hates my cats, and I want to put him outside. He's always been an outdoor cat, and he'd probably be happier that way. I'm worried that it won't work out, though.

I took the cat because my parents couldn't take him with them. I took the cat, even though I knew that it would make finding the next place to live harder, because I know what happens to 10-year-old cats that get put up for adoption, and I won't send him to die. My parents' dog already died, and now I'm starting to realize that taking the cat is connected to that as well. Thinking about this, sitting on the filthy bile-colored benches at the veterenarian, tapping my feet, trying to distract myself, it all starts adding up: the cat, the dog, and my parents. I've never really lived far away from my parents, and as much as my eyes dart from brochure to brochure, as much as the dirty rubber soles of my sneakers keep tap-tapping at an ever-increasing pace, as much as I try to just zone out and think of anything else but what's going on my stupid, mechanical, analytical asshole of a mind keeps making connections, stringing together stressors and pains that I didn't even know were bothering me until they're one big awful tangle of strings tugging away that I can't ignore.

Yesterday I had convinced myself that I would have to give the cat up for adoption. Today I'm sitting on a bench taking back the carrier from a veterinary assistant and one little pitiful meow is all it takes to push me over the edge. My eyes are starting to get wet, and I just want to take him home and be out of there, so of course they lose the paperwork. Finally I get him signed out and pay the $300 and rush out the door. I'm really starting to wish I hadn't forgotten my sunglasses when my nose starts running. Just great. Well maybe my roommate won't be there when I get home. She is. Stellar. I let the cat out and shuffle into the office, hurt and humiliated.

So I guess I've got three cats now, and I'm never having kids. It looks like you can buy yourself a life-altering decision for a mere 300 bucks. It's just a good thing that cats don't have to go to school, or I'd be completely screwed.