My Cat Knows That I Am Broke Because of Him.

As I sat in the vet's office for an hour and half tonight waiting for my appointment, I knew that Truman probably hated me.

The room was packed with idiots with dogs far too big for them, dogs they couldn't contain and which constantly jumped at Truman's carrier. It was also filled with idiots who just shouldn't own pets, like the old pierced and tatted up woman with the pitbull puppy whose nails she had painted pink.

It takes all kinds, from the man arguing with the doctor about the diagnosis she gave to his Boxer to the little boy punching a dog he thought got too close to his behemoth.

After seven weeks of these vet visits, it looks like Truman's starting to get better. He gave himself a cut on the throat from scratching, and despite all the medication, he kept making it worse. We're on the fourth batch of antibiotic now, but it looks like the steroid spray they gave him last time is doing the trick. The scratching is waning, and with it, the cringe-inducing blood splatters on the walls and floors. So, in that sense, despite the stress and aggravation, it was a good night at the vet.

While waiting to see the doctor, I read a copy of Cat Fancy, paying close attention to an article debating whether or not our cats love us. That I made Truman sit in a small cage while large dogs taunted him and he's still crying at me right now to pet him ends the debate for me.