My husband is a great guy and everything, but he and I don’t see eye to eye on some things. And Nicki’s welfare is one of those things.
Here is a recent photo of Nicki, so feel free to gaze into her eyes and fall head over tail in love before you proceed with the rest of the post.
So when it comes to Nicki’s health and well-being, my husband is very much aligned with the “let sleeping cats lie” theory of veterinary medicine whereas I am mildly more every day is an opportunity to be diagnosed with a new disease, let’s not waste it! camp about it and insist on regular checkups and access to Plan B for our beloved Nicki. (Incidentally, what’s Plan A? Condoms? Maybe condoms should rebrand as Plan A. Just an idea.)
“She looks completely fine,” he says every time I mention that Nicki has another wellcat visit coming up. “It’s not necessary to spend hundreds of dollars on a check up.”
I’m never convinced by these visual reassurances.
What if Nicki has some kind of Silent Killer condition, like high blood pressure or diabetes? What if she is depressed? As her guardians we need to be on top of that stuff so that she doesn’t turn to drugs or French manicures.
“You can’t tell by looking,” I mumble, as I flip through the Directory of Feline Specialists. Does she need a cardiologist, maybe? A pulmonary specialist?
“Of course you can tell by looking,” he says, disgusted by my humanitarian agenda. “Nicki looks healthy. Sly doesn’t.”
Sly, incidentally, is my parents’ cat. Or was, until he decided to die shortly before Mama and my daughter left on their summer sojourn to Scandinavia and Russia and the funeral had to be put on hold. And by “on hold” I mean that Sly is currently in my parents’ freezer.
Actually I have no idea if Sly looks healthy or not. At least he’s staying cool during this terrible heat wave.
But I made an appointment for Nicki to see the vet and my kids and Mama took her (and a pre-signed check) earlier this week.
“Everything is fine!” Mama said.”Nicki gained half a pound, but that’s not as much as you did!”
She sounded downright jovial.
I decided to get the full report from my 12 year old son.
“The doctor said that Nicki is round,” he told me.
“Round?” I asked.
“Round,” he repeated.
That was all the confirmation I needed.
“Nicki is suffering from the Round,” I told my husband.
“I have no idea what that means,” he hid his despair well.
“I’m not sure either,” I confessed, “but I think we both know that it will require further testing and perhaps a second opinion.”
My husband didn’t respond. Probably because he was deep in thought. I’m guessing about the best way to thank me for staying on top of Nicki’s medical needs.
I’ll keep you posted on the roundness. You can’t be too careful with these things.