Penn, One Hopes, Is Mightier

I'm very, very fried—this afternoon I drove away from a gas pump without pumping the gas I paid for and walked away from a supermarket automated checkout line without paying for the food (both situations recognized and rectified) but before I collapse I want to update my friends near and far on the cat situation. Let's be hopeful, is the short answer. A slightly longer answer is that there's no evidence, at least that I've been told about, of any terminal diseases. And I can also tell you that at the Matthew J. Ryan Veterinary Hospital at the University of Pennsylvania School of Veterinary Medicine, they don't ask you explicitly or implicitly if you'd prefer the more economical and tidy option of euthanizing one of your friends.

No, I imagine they figure that if you've found your way to Penn, it's a case of in for a penny, in for a pound. But you're paying for cutting-edge medicine and you're also paying for judgment. They got all the information and they think he can be treated aggressively with antibiotics—the whole mess, they think, may be infection-related and he may not need surgery at all. I'm all for that and I think I speak for him too.

The fancy specialists at the Delaware clinic suggested this morning that he go to Penn, and I gulped. What next? Chartering a medevac helicopter? Some clinic in Zurich? In the back of my mind, the thought came: This thing is spinning out of control. But I said to the Delaware vet, "I've been asking this question a lot lately: What would you do if he were your cat?" And the answer was take him to Penn. I finished up work, went to the clinic, and went the 30 miles up the highway to Philadelphia. He was miserable, trying to get out of his collar the whole time in the carrier. But we got him there, I sat for a couple of hours, and finally they told me that despite his bouquet of medical issues they thought they could see a way through. I signed all the papers and handed over the plastic and then they took me back to talk to him. I pushed my hand as far as it would go into the bars of the cage, and he pushed his head against it, the way he always does when I'm petting him. After all I've done to him (how else can he interpret it?), after all that, he still trusts me. Tomorrow or the next day I'll tell you a little more about him, about his history, but for now, all I can say is that it may be a truism but you really, truly can't put a price on that sort of thing. My home is happier when he's in it, the sun is brighter and the grass greener. He trusts me and counts on me and I'll tell you more about his story tomorrow. But I'm tired now, it's been a strain. I wish I could make you see what a sweet, innocent, trusting little soul he is, but you'll have to take my word for it. He's at Penn—there's probably no better place for him to be. They said things that make me hopeful. You see, in case I haven't mentioned it lately, I kind of like this cat.