The last blog has led to comments that make me throw up. I realized it was time to write a new one.
JoJo had been yakking and spitting too often. Not even hairballs. I was worried, and knew I had to get her to the vet. So, I’m working away one day, and up pops some ad for Internet Vet or something like that. I paused, mostly surprised that it wasn’t an ad for Aldo boots or Gap cotton sweaters or something else I would prefer to Internet shop for. My computer knows me so well, it suggests my size, my style preference and even says WE ALREADY HAVE YOUR VISA NUMBER ON FILE. I like admiring boots and jeans and sweaters while I work. Though I now get pop ups for Junk-B-Gone or something like that, since I called a Junk Place a month ago to take away some final construction debris. They also have my visa number on file.
Anyway, there I am working away, worrying about the upchucker in the next room, when this vet thing pops up. ‘Just ask a question, we have dozens of the World’s Best Vets waiting to hear from you”, it said. So. I glanced at Spitty Girl, and went in. You ask a question – as long and detailed as you like, you give them a visa payment of $18 in good faith – you can take it back if you don’t like the advice. I shrugged, typed in JoJo’s problem, and waited. In about 5 minutes, a real live vet asked me further questions. He was real: there was a picture of him there, sitting on a rock somewhere oceany, like California. It looked more like a Match.com picture than an internet vet picture, though I must admit, I’ve not really familiar with either. I want someone to make my cat stop throwing up under my bed every night, not take me out. Though someone who could do both would be a hell of a catch, you must admit. Well, I guess only if you’re a single woman with a lot of cats. Nevermind.
He suggested I change foods. The girls eat such expensive vet food Christopher calls it cate. With a little accent ague over the ‘e’. He suggested a different brand; I checked the Rent-a-Vet site, and there were no ads for this brand, so I was more inclined to believe him. I decided the next day to give it a go. I paid the 18 bucks. I’m sure he used it to buy a latte to go lounge on the rocks again.
We started having some more problems with wee Maggie that night; she was just too lethargic. Pammy and I took her to the 24 hour vet at about 10 at night. Apparently, JoJo is an 18-dollar-over-the-internet-worthy-cat, but Maggie is a rush-screaming-in-an-ambulance-to-the-emergency-ward-cost-be-damned-cat. As we hustled Maggie and her cage out to the car, I realized I haven’t driven my own car in ages. Christer and Pammy are using it most days for school. I’ve had a little Boxster here in the driveway. As we went down the steps, I asked Pam how much crap was in the back of our car; Christer treats it like a tip. She ran ahead of me to clear some space, as Maggie glanced at the Porsche and said “can’t we take the good car?”
The place was empty, a good sign. Maggie had on her sad, mopey face, alternating with her angry, slitty eyed fierce face. But it’s hard to be fierce when your weight is down to 5 and three quarter pounds. They weighed her; she’d lost half a pound since June, when the kids had her in. I nearly cried.
The tech took her temp (normal, but oh, the indignity), her heart rate (normal) and poked her all over (normal). She mostly just glared at me the whole time (also normal). And so we waited. And waited. There was one other cat in there, we discerned (by listening to the voices over the door to the next room). The vet went on and on and on….and on. Hour and a half on and on. Most of it was listing how much all the procedures cost, so the cat owners could choose, al a cart, I guess. Thing is, Maggie finally looked at her watch, shot me a look that said “really? This is so far past my bedtime…and yours” that we left. I tried to pay, but the tech said to just go. I told her I’d take her to my vet in the morning.
You know what’s coming, don’t you? We got home, and it coincided with starting JoJo on the new food. And Maggie started eating. And eating. It’s a week later. She’s gained weight. She’s shiny and happy and chasing JoJo around. She’s normal. They both just had quit their food, like two girl cat cowboys. My initial joy that the new food costs about 25% less than the old stuff was quashed when they started eating 3 times as much. But it wasn’t lost on me that the Internet vet had cured two cats in one go.
Oh, and JoJo isn’t spitting up anymore. Way, way less. I triumphantly told Ari that the Internet vet was just fine, and that it was $18 well spent. “She’s still kakking up,” he told me. “She just does it in the rec room when I’m in here at night”. “No, she isn’t,” I told him. “She’s cured.” He looked at me, about to say something. He held his tongue. Bet if I check his browser history, it’ll show a search for Internet shrink.