Apparently I should always send Chip to the vet—with the cat, I mean, not for his own medical care.
I say this because when he came home from the cat’s annual checkup, Chip was blissfully free of the guilt—and accessories—that usually accompany me back to the house from the vet’s office. Although I think we take fine care of our cat—an indoor cat, she gets quality pet food, yearly well-cat visits, and plenty of exercise running away from the newly mobile toddler in the house—there just seems to be a higher standard than there used to be for what constitutes good pet ownership.
Let’s start with the cat teeth brushing. I’m going to admit up front that there is about as much chance of my brushing the cat’s teeth as there is of the cat deciding to yack her hairball on the laminate upstairs instead of the carpet downstairs. That is to say that it
could happen, but it probably won’t.
I have two children, both of whom require my care in many things, not the least of which is attention to their dental hygiene. At 15 months, Emerson has more tiny, sharp chompers than my son did when he was twice her age, and, as ZZ Top would say,
she knows how to use them. Brushing her teeth with one of those handy-dandy fingertip toothbrushes would be about as smart as curling up for a nap in a bear enclosure, and even the toddler-friendly brushes require some serious wrangling. Connery, at almost 6, is much more cooperative these days, but I still can’t just hand him the tools and walk away.
Since they are my children, I will fight with them and force them to take care of their teeth. But by the time it’s the cat’s turn for Battle Fang, I just don’t have the stamina. And yet, each year at the vet’s office I dutifully take (and pay for!) the kitty toothbrush and salmon-flavored toothpaste. Then they both sit in a junk drawer, waiting for me to have the inclination to risk life and limb to stick my finger in a mouth best suited for ripping apart flesh.
I have also often been sent home with probiotics and vitamins and other supplements that are supposed to be necessary for my cat’s wellbeing. And, you know, if Sotek would sit docilely and lap up these formulations, that would be one thing. But administering anything more complicated than kibble to a cat generally involves two adults, an oversized beach towel and possibly a trip to the emergency room. I just can’t justify the expense and danger.
I guess I feel a little resentful about these new, higher standards of responsible pet care. My parents never had to brush our pets’ collective teeth or supplement their diet with designer nutri-ceuticals. (And I should mention that those cats lived to 21 and 22!) Our pets were valued members of the household, but they weren’t getting oral surgery if we didn’t have the means to get yearly cleanings. That used to be accepted. Now, there seems to be an expectation that if a treatment is available, it’s not really optional. If you really loved your pet—the new standard goes—you would find the money and the time, no matter how much money or time is involved.
Luckily, Chip seemed untroubled by the pressure. He returned home with no One-A-Day For Cats, no Feline WaterPik, no Kitty Kaviar—just a healthy, middle-aged cat anxious to get out of the travel carrier and back into the basement. I presume I’ll be finding the hairball with my bare feet any time now.
(Adapted from a column in today's Business to Business.)
