Can you believe that after all this, I stuck with “Bra”?

“What are you going to say his name is?” Rob asked as we were crossing the street to the vet. I shrugged. He DOES have a name, but did I really want to say it out loud to people? While filling out the form I hesitated, and then wrote “Bra”. What else was I going to put?! I then got made fun of by the vet tech (who said I should call him Lucky, which, no.) and the vet, who cried out, “He’s a BOY!”, although I didn’t know when I named him. This is what I get for not thinking harder about a decent moniker.

Bra has heart murmur which makes putting him under for neutering slightly risky. Normal procedure in this case is a two hundred dollar ultrasound to determine if anesthisa for neutering would kill him, and then making a decision based on that.

“I hate to ask,” I said, “but if he does die in surgery, would it hurt?” And then I started to cry.

The vet told me it wouldn’t, and it would “probably be just fine” anyway, so I decided to go ahead with it, because 1. the risk is small and two, if he dies than he dies, you know? The alternative is him living and making kittens all over the neighborhood, kittens that would have a very low survival rate, a minimal chance at a decent life, and the opportunity to make dozens of kittens of their own. If he was an indoor cat this might have played out differently, but he’s not and I can’t give him a home here because of the trio, so risking one life to reduce the future cat population by hundreds was the sensible option in this case. I’m still worried about my buddy, though.

** Update: After I wrote this, I got a call saying he came through swimmingly and was awake and ball-less. He can’t stay here, so he’s staying there overnight, which will cost us $58, which is about what I paid to sleep in the scary motel in the middle of nowhere Connecticut when my mom kicked me out of the house. **

The biggest problem they had with Bra during the exam was that he wouldn’t stop purring long enough to let the vet get a really good read on his heartbeat. His demeanor the entire time was a little nervous and stiff because it was all new and exciting, but mostly you could tell he was digging being warm and getting lots of attention.

The hurt paw is an abscess that will clear up with an initial drain and clean, and then injected, long-term antibiotics. I’m glad it’s an abscess, not an injury, because it means that someone didn’t hurt him on purpose. He’s getting a flea treatment, too, which I will keep up once a month until he finds a good home, and he’s getting a rabies vax. There are other vaxes he SHOULD have, but we decided against them.

The grand total for everything was $315 and the flea stuff will be another $15 – $20. It’s not horrible, but I really didn’t want to have to pay more than, like, a hundred bucks max for this cat. But it is what it is.

Would anyone like a just-over-a-year old, neutered orange and white cat that purrs all of the time? I won’t even be offended if you rename him. Drop me a line, lemme know.

Ok, look. If you like your furball of a cat, great. Have a cat. Have two. Have three for all I care, just know that once you hit three, you are, officially, crazy. (And no, the same can’t be said of dogs.)

I don’t like cats. They’re weird and dodgy and snobby and not my thing. Dogs are deliriously devoted, predictably friendly and charmingly stupid. They have the good sense to look happy when they are, look angry when they are, and, even, look sad when they are.

That said, I’m terribly worried about this stupid cat, Bra. He showed up today with a visibly swollen paw that he was not putting weight on (oh, btw, I can say he with certainty now. I saw fuzzy balls.) (Sorry.) I let him in to the front entry way and closed the door so he could be in the warmth and I could take a closer look. Rob sat so he was blocking the way to the rest of the house, and Bra stepped from me to Rob to me, basking in the warmth, attention and water we gave him. He seemed otherwise OK. Rebecca says he’s probably fine, and she’s pretty cat savvy. Overall, though, I’m not sure what to do with him. Something like 70% of cats delivered to shelters are put down, so I don’t want to go that route. On the other hand, I don’t want him to be left on the streets where he could possibly be killed by car or a mean dog. I can’t take him in, obviously (if I could, you’d be reading about my new pet cat and Rob’s constant sneezing).

The bed I made for him is cozy and warm, and he gets food every night, but it’s growing increasingly difficult to care deeply for something that is small and wandery and living in a pretty bad neighborhood.