My father and I drop Dominic off for his dental procedure at 9:00A.M., and when the vet’s office calls a few hours later, I leap for my phone. General anesthesia can be fatal for cats of advanced age, and I pray that the news is good.
“He’s doing really well,” says Dr. Raymond. “But the X-rays show that the tooth decay is worse than we thought. There are nine teeth that require removal.”
“Nine teeth,” I say, trying to do the math. “So that’s $900?!”
“I’ll transfer you to the front desk for an exact estimate, and you can let them know how you’d like to proceed. Again, it’s your choice…”
“But he’ll be much more comfortable,” I say.
“Exactly,” says Dr. Raymond. “Hold, please.”
A punchy Rod Stewart song comes on, and, just as I am starting to enjoy it, I hear, “This is Kathy at the front desk. So for nine teeth, plus the cleaning, the anesthesia, the meds, the X-rays, the presurgical bloodwork…”—I can hear her acrylic nails flying around the keyboard—“that will come out to $2,300. And we include a complimentary nail trim.”
For a moment, I can’t breathe. “$2,300?”
“Yes. Oh, wait. Do you need an Elizabethan collar? To prevent him from agitating the wound once he’s home? If so, that will be… $2,306.”
After a moment of stunned silence, during which I envision a loopy Dominic catching his cone-of-shame on the doorways of our house, I remember that I have a decision to make.
“Would you like us to proceed with the removal of the teeth?”
I don’t have the money, but I can’t bear the thought of Dominic waking up only for me to tell him, “Sorry, buddy, but we opted to let your teeth rot.” And besides, he is my father’s beloved companion; we need him healthy.
As I begin to sweat, Kathy says something about a payment plan. Four installments. Over time. Zero interest.
“Okay,” I say. “Yes, you can proceed.”
I know I’m doing the right thing for our cat, and, by proxy, for my dad. But when I hang up the phone, I immediately panic. Even with my new gig doing Paula’s tech and admin, it will take me months to pay off this bill. I have to figure something out fast, and though it’s hard to stomach, there’s only one logical option. I open my laptop and compose a new email.
Subj: Freelance help?
Gemma,
Hello! I hope you’re well. I’ve been eagerly following Actualize’s announcements and social feeds—looks like business is booming! No surprise there. Things are busy here in the Adirondacks as well. I’m writing because I have an opening in my schedule to do a bit of freelance work, and I immediately thought of you. Any chance you need remote help with strategy or marketing? No worries if not.
All my best,
Cricket
I hit send with a wince. Writing to Gemma feels like crawling back to an ex who you know is bad for you. But at the same time, I know what makes Gemma tick, and I hope this will be a path to a quick paycheck or two. Just enough to cover Dominic’s dental bill, then I will move on from Actualize for good. I close my laptop, sigh, and call to my father, “Dad? It’s time to go get the cat.”
My father wanders into the room and looks around. “The cat? Where is she?”
“She’s at the doctor,” I say. (Gender is a construct.)
When we arrive at the vet, I reluctantly hand over my credit card to Kathy, and the vet tech eagerly hands over Dominic, who is lolling in his carrier, docile and high on painkillers.
“He did beautifully,” the vet tech says with a smile, as if Dominic has just aced the LSAT rather than drained my bank account.
“Thanks for taking such good care of him,” I say. It’s not lost on me that I once dreamed of being the veterinarian on the other side of this transaction. Maybe in my next life.
When we get home, I open my email and see there is a response from Gemma.
Re: Freelance help?
hey lady! Was just talking about you! Funny you should write. Ella is leaving and we need help with product copy asap
Cc’ing Adelaide to provide details
