I woke up this morning with a sinking feeling because I knew I had to shove Luca unwillingly into a cat carrier, drive to the vet, and leave her there. It was hard, and I was still conflicted about the procedure – but I was determined.
I told her good-bye, and left. All day she was on my mind. I didn’t know what time she’d have surgery, so I’d constantly wonder what was happening to her at that precise moment. Each time I hoped the surgery might already be over and I was about to get that phone call from the vet saying everything went well.
Around 2 p.m., my cell phone finally rang. It was the vet, and she sounded chipper, which I took as a good sign. But instead of telling me everything was over and fine, she said, “I’m about to go in for the surgery, and just wanted to talk to you one last time to confirm everything.”
While I appreciated the double-check, I felt awful. I felt like the governor on the other end of the line when the warden calls from the jail, asking “will you grant a stay of execution?” I could picture the vet standing over my limp, lifeless cat, scalpel gleaming, with a phone to one ear waiting for my affirmation. Should I say no? Last chance! Last chance!
But I said yes. Go ahead.
The vet called me again a little later – the phone call I’d really been waiting for. The one that said Luca came through okay.
I still feel guilty. She has to stay at the vet’s for two nights, but I’m already looking forward to getting her home. I’m sure she’s scared, being in a strange place with strange things happening to her. Actually, I’m sure she’s asleep right now, because they said they’d knock her out for a while. But I think she’ll be glad to get home. I just hope she forgives me and I hope our relationship can be better now without the fear of an impending attack.