The Humanity!

Remember the movie Scream? You know, the one where they decided that Neve Campbell deserved the lead role and Drew Barrymore gets killed off in the first 5 minutes by the guy in the black and white costume? And do you remember the part when the best friend named (inexplicably) Tatum gets killed when she tries to crawl through a pet door in the garage and they open the garage with her stuck in the door? I'm here to tell you that that wouldn't have killed her. Uh-uh. Because almost the same thing happened to my cat today and she is still alive. Take that, Wes Craven.
Weezer, my cat (okay, my mom's cat), was playing outside and managed to find a cozy spot to rest on top of the open garage door, hovering just below the ceiling. I'm sure she thought she had discovered a dark, cool hiding place up high where she can spy on the world from her own special watchtower. Things got a little less cozy when my mom for some insane reason didn't climb a ladder with a flashlight and peer across the ceiling before leaving to see if perhaps a cat had lodged itself on top of the open garage door. Well, anyway, she pulled her car out of the garage and CLOSED THE GARAGE DOOR. The cat, presumably, ran to the end of the closing door and was closed into it, eight feet above the ground, pinned by her pelvis. When my brother found her twenty minutes later, I won't lie, I cried. I thought she was a goner.

That's not the good part. Because it was around 6 p.m., the vet's office was closed so I proceeded to call the emergency line. After listening to a 90 second recording about fees and pet care, I get put through to an operator who helpfully informs me that she will page the doctor on call, who will get back to me, then she returns to filing her nails and reading the special double issue of High Times. 15 minutes passes. I wonder if I have the emergency veterinary number mixed up with that of some 11 year old prankster. Luckily, I did have the right number, but the male operator that answered the phone this time seemed confused that I would be in such a hurry. Although I understand that it is, after all, JUST A CAT, the fact is that their business is the welfare of animals. Don't offer me an after-hours emergency line and then act like I'm calling to ask if they are satisfied with their long distance provider. Two more phone calls and 45 minutes later, my cat is half-conscious and the vet has only just called. It is not our regular vet, because in our small town all the local vets alternate being on call for the Pet 911 service.

As it turns out, tonight Ozzy Osbourne's less-lucid bearded brother was the vet on call. With eyes wandering independently of one another around the room, he told us that he didn't see anything wrong with her, felt her up and listened to her heart, then gave her a pain shot and told us to take her home.
But what's wrong with her? Is anything broken? What about internal injuries?
Yeah, she'll need an x-ray.
Can't you give her one?
Nope. That'll be $150.00.

Which means that tomorrow my To Do list includes taking the cat (who appears to be better but won't come out from under the bed) to her own doctor at 7:30 a.m. for an actual examination, then getting a veterinary degree, because apparently they're handing them out at the homeless shelter downtown.