My manager told me this morning that his mother's dog may have brain cancer.
Some of you who read my journal back when I was in the Land of Diary-X may remember that about two years ago I dated an emotionally unstable veterinary oncologist. Putting the emotionally unstable bit to the side, I always had a hard time wrapping my head around his job:
You treat pets for cancer?
People bring you their dogs with cancer and you cure them?
And they pay thousands of dollars to do this?
Yes, it's for their pets.
He always made me feel like people (me) who were unwilling to drop 6 thousand dollars to possibly cure their pets of cancer were bad. Seriously, he told me about this one woman who nearly went bankrupt paying for her little dogs medical care. And, he thought it was the greatest thing.
I told him (not a direct quote, but close enough), "I'm sorry, but if my cat, the wonderful Psychokitty Isabella, Giver of Vomit of Joy, Attacker of Feet That Move in the Night, Killer of Alien Crickets [pictured], ever got cancer (or some other illness which would potentially bankrupt me), I would have her put down."
He looked like I had told him there was no Santa Claus.
I love PKI very much; however, I love my quality of life more. I would want her to die peacefully, rather than endure kittychemo or some other painful procedure and, maybe even then, still not be cured. Part of loving is being able to let go.
I have no resources to back this up, but I have heard that people can get health insurance for their pets. In a country where a lot of children can't get basic health care for lack of insurance, that is completely fucked up.