When I was in college, my great-aunt offered me two kittens she had living on her porch. They’d already been passed around through several family members. At least one of them had some sort of “tummy troubles” that she wasn’t invested enough to take them to the vet for. (Older country folks don’t really believe in vets anyway.) I accepted the kittens. I thought my parents were going to explode with sheer exasperation.
And they were right. One of the cats sadly did not make it to adulthood (hit by a car). But the other? The other needed a special prescription food, permanently. She had an umbilical hernia that needed surgery. If I didn’t trim her claws (which she hated), she would knead me until she drew blood. She fought with other cats and swatted at other people. She chewed things, clawed things, knocked things over. She would bite my face in the middle of the night. She pooped outside the litter box every day of her life, no matter what I tried, and still demanded special expensive litter in order to use the box at all. Later in life, she became diabetic, which is not only expensive as heck but, of course, requires shots; I’m needle-phobic. There were times I only kept her because I knew no one else on earth would take her.
I had to open a special savings account just for her needs, trying to keep them off the credit card. I stayed three years in a job I loathed because Lucy had to have insulin.
She passed away very unexpectedly about a year and a half ago, and I still cry, missing her.