The high cost of loving a pet

By Mark E. Liskey

My cat, Jack, is dying of cancer. He has weeks to live. The diagnosis was made at the veterinary hospital at a total cost of slightly more than $1,000. I've been told that I got off easy.

Don't get me wrong, I value the diagnosis. It gives me the opportunity to do the right thing - you know, give Jack the "good boy!" chin rub when he wakes me at 2 a.m., rather than the cold shoulder. But a thousand bucks?

The pet-supply industry has capitalized on the fact that I project my feelings onto my cat. In other words, they make money when I think Jack is me. ("Shredded Turkey Fare in a Savory Sauce with Garden Greens" cat food sounded great to me. Jack declined.) Now, the pet-care industry is in on the exploitation too.

At the veterinary hospital I visited, it was all about making the animal with the Visa card comfortable, not the animal in the cage.

In the lobby, I sat on a leather sofa ("No cat carriers on the furniture please," a sign read) and watched HDTV (a little Oprah to take my mind off of Jack's sudden weight loss). A cappuccino machine drew me to the corner (saving me a Dunkin Donuts stop on the way home). Laptops blinked; they had a wireless network ("Dear friends and family, only have a second, but just wanted to let everyone know that Jack is being euthanized as I write. . . . ").

Feeling good yet, Jack?

What's the big deal if the veterinary hospital engages in a little "petting the pet owner?" None - as long as they're not taking advantage of our tendency to project when we're considering our pets' serious medical issues.

I was an easy mark. I project onto Jack that he's a survivor, something I like to think I am. He was left behind when his first owner moved into a nursing home - yet, he continued on. And he deserves the best treatment for what he's been through.

My projection helped ensure that the $350 for the preliminary tests went on the Visa card without a second thought. It made the decision to go ahead with the $200, 15-minute exam by a doctor at the veterinary hospital a no-brainer; my survivor had to be given every chance he could. However, when the doctor called for a battery of tests to determine if Jack had cancer or a combination of asthma and irritable bowel syndrome, he ran into one of my character flaws - I'm cheap.

"How much are these tests going to cost?" I asked sheepishly. An additional $400 to $800, the doctor said.

"Oh. . . . Any opinion so far?"

The doctor didn't answer my question. Instead he talked about the tests that he would perform if I gave approval. I pressed him again, but now it was becoming clear that even after years of seeing cats with asthma and cancer he wasn't going to offer an opinion - that is, until all tests were done.

I looked at Jack on the examining table. My survivor looked like he was about to keel over that very second. The guilt swelled. The doctor looked up from his chart. "Well?" he asked.

The receptionist ran my Visa card for $400, the balance due at the end of the testing. An hour later I was reunited with Jack.

"I couldn't do the biopsy," he explained, "but the ultrasound indicated trouble in the bowels and stomach."

"So, it's cancer."

He equivocated.

I glared.

The doctor thought, then said, "Considering his sudden weight loss and the ultrasound results, I'd say cancer: two weeks to a month. Nothing we can do. Sorry. However, to really know for sure we would have to . . . "

Of course, more tests. Expensive ones! The inference was now patently clear: Surely if you received a diagnosis of cancer, you would want to be 100 percent sure it was the right diagnosis, wouldn't you?

I took Jack home.

It's been eight weeks. His breathing is more labored, but he's energetic and still wakes me up at 2 a.m. for a chin rub. I'll really miss Jack, my cat, when he's dead.