Semi-responsible pet ownership.

Let me tell you about the time I brought my cat to the butcher.

Oscar was getting overly male and in our house, we find that unacceptable so we began to look up neutering options. Marta’s priority was that it be cheap and, because Oscar has been driving me banana-sandwich lately by stealing my earrings and eating my food, my priority was that it be uncomfortable. (I’m KIDDING!)

Anyway. I called some places and it seemed like we weren’t getting out of this cheap. Vets are so pesky these days about making sure your animal has all kinds of shots and microchips and what not. Marta Googled “discount neutering” and found this place that basically functioned as a charity/vet. They were frustrating to get a hold of from the beginning. Marta had to keep calling them back because every time she got someone on the phone, they would sound distracted by some chaos in the background and would say to her “call back in a few minutes!” I saw this as a good sign that they would be inexpensive since they clearly didn’t charge the overhead to hire a fulltime secretary who wasn’t doubling as crowd control/anesthesiologist. And it WAS cheap! It was literally less than half the price of the other places. WITH SHOTS. Bargain hunting at its best.

Marta made the appointment and I agreed to take him because the place was in South Boston, thus closer to my work than hers. The morning of the event, I got out the cat carrier Marta had brought back from PA when she went home last. She had neglected to tell me that it was disgustingly filthy with some sort of soot all over the outside of it. I couldn’t use it like that because A) black stuff got all over me when I touched it and B) Oscar already wasn’t keen on the idea of getting in it and who could blame him and C) I was afraid of what the people at the vet would think. So there I am in my nice work clothes, running late, trying to scrub the carrier so that the discount cat neuterer wouldn’t judge me.

I had to all but dump Oscar in there too because he somehow knew that this was not his day. The poor guy cried the entire way there. I talked to him like he was my preschooler the whole time. It took me FOREVER to get there/ find the place too. By “South Boston” Marta meant Dorchester. I was driving down the NARROWEST alleyway –so narrow that I had to drive with my left tires up on the side walk to get around a car stopped on the right. I was on what my GPS said was my destination street thinking “surely not!” It looked like it was just back doors. But then, I saw a small white sign claiming to mark the spot. Out front was chubby man in a ratty looking sweatshirt smoking a cigarette. I guess he’s having his cat neutered too… I parked around the corner and carried my poor little kitten to the door. Apparently smoking guy worked there in some capacity. Awesome.

So I wait in there forEVER with all the other people with cat carriers and Oscar is shaking like a leaf. By this time, I am feeling pretty badly for him. The experience up to this point had to be enough punishment to compensate for all of the earrings he has carried off and that bag of my pita bread that he ate. I am about ready to call the whole thing off because I realize I don't hate him enough to leave him here when some guy wearing scrubs who has backhair spilling out the top walks up to me and says "Oscar?" He has some miscellaneous Eastern European accent. I consider looking at him blankly and pretending that I speak even less English than he does and then grabbing Oscar and making a run for it.

Instead I say “Yes. He’s right here.” I hate myself in this moment and I shoot Oscar telepathic messages that say “Look little buddy, I’m like 60% sure you’re going to be ok so just relax and be nice to the strange man. Plus, we wouldn’t even be here if you didn’t have to go and start humping household objects!” The strange man tells me that I also have to give Oscar a distemper shot and a rabies shot and worm pills. Sure whatever- is it still the same price we discussed?

I let the man take little Oscar in to the back and as he goes I shoot Oscar eyes that say I’M REALLY SORRY!

They tell me I can pick him up at 5:00. I guess you get what you pay for though because I called at 4:30, as instructed, and he hadn’t even been touched yet. He wasn’t ready to be picked up until almost 7:00. Marta picked him up and reported that he was “swaying like a drunken sailor.” There were stitches in the area of concern but now that he’s healed, neither of us are really convinced that they did anything because there has been really minimal behavior change.
So there is the most recent story of our semi-responsible pet ownership. He is alive but still a little bit too male for our liking.