tamarjacobson

Molly broke her leg.

There she was, after her usual outdoor visit to birds and chipmunks, on the rug, tail swinging back and forth. And then all of a sudden she was yowling, dragging a dangling back leg.

Off to the vet we scurried, hurried, and then onto the emergency surgical clinic almost thirty miles away. I left her there, in the hospital, drugged and woozy, and drove home to tell Ada the news. Ada did not seem too concerned. She climbed on the bed and cuddled close to my body, glad to have me all to herself.

The surgeon called to say the leg is badly fractured and will need plates and pins and all sorts of modern technological goodies. For a cat! Astronomical cost. But if I prefer they could just put her down. Put her down?

I cried all night until T. called. He’s in Australia and his day is my night before. He got my message from the conference secretary. "No putting Molly down whatever the cost, sweetheart," he said gently, kindly, voice wrapping around my shoulders with care and love.