Glance... oops...

Cast but a glance at riches, and they are gone, for they will surely sprout wings and fly off to the sky like an eagle.

—Proverbs 23:5

I should have known better.

I was looking at the finances on the fridge (we keep a little whiteboard there so we all know what we can and can't spend) and thinking that it was so wonderful not to have any outstanding bills, to have a little extra, to not have to worry. Dumb.

When I get extra cash, I should start wondering, "Uh-oh. What's going to happen, that I need extra cash to cover it?"

Turns out it was the cat. I came home to find him dripping pus and blood from a wound on his face. Just the day before, I had noticed a lump, but this was the worst case I'd seen. Ewww doesn't quite cover it. But, hey, I clean fishtanks, change diapers, repair plumbing (for varying values of repair) and like rare steak, so ignored the gore, grabbed the cat, and took him inside to the bathroom to get him cleaned up. I kept my leather coat and gloves on.

Deborah had already made an appointment for the vet the next day.

There once was a time—about the time when the cat was getting into a fight twice a week—when we might take care of this ourselves: stuff the cat into an old shirt sleeve, shave the affected area with the sideburn trimmer on my old Norelco, drain the wound, rinse with hydrogen peroxide or mercurochrome, and mix up an antibiotic solution from an amoxycillin tablet. Real "jungle medicine" type stuff.

Of course, that was back when it was just the two of us, though, without three other people to frighten (or interfere) with the operation. I wouldn't want Fiona to get the idea that it's OK to shave the cat because Daddy did it, and Aiden would be terrified by the occasional yowl. May would probably just faint, and she might hurt herself if she did that. And besides, the infection went from undetectable to bursting in less than 48 hours... better to let the professionals handle this one.

Poor Taffy. That right cheek does seem to get the brunt of things.