Five weeks ago, I adopted a rescue for my other adopted rescue. The first needed a buddy, so a buddy I set out to find.
I got the first from my vet, and rescue #2 ended up coming from the same place. They’d been neighbors and would paw at each other playfully during their five months cooped up in cages. I knew it was no way for young kitties to live out their lives.
Sometime during the past week, rescue #2 — Tucker the tabby — began to not look so hot. Long story short, Tucker is at the vet, newly diagnosed with cholangiohepatitis, and is essentially awaiting his fate.
I feel terrible.
What started out as a good deed — an adoption to reunite a kind, quiet boy with his friend and give him a forever home in the process — has kept me in tears most of the evening.
While Tucker is resting comfortably at the vet’s office thanks to pain meds, antibiotics and a cocktail of other things, Jack is here with me at home meowing loudly and wondering where his friend has gone.
If the meds don’t bring Tucker’s toxic blood levels down, the next step would be an ultrasound to, more or less, figure out what to operate on.
To say that we won’t be operating kills me. I cannot afford it.
I cannot afford him.
If love was money, this would be a non-issue.
He will either be given back to the vet, or put down. I’ve never put any creature down.
I have love coming out my ears, but not dollars. And dollars are what it will take to save him if the meds don’t work.
They say that I’ve done my best and given him a loving home that he wouldn’t have otherwise known. They say it’s in God’s hands, but I feel like the answer is in my wallet. But it is empty.
Tonight I am thankful for a vet with a large, beautiful, understanding heart, for a quiet, shy boy that I had for five short weeks, and I send up prayers for a miracle to happen.