Poor Phil. Our little black kitty, who we've been treating for the past couple of weeks for ear infections - and taking to the very nice vet twice in those past couple of weeks - has been, finally, diagnosed with an ear polyp. It's bleeding when it gets jostled, which is why one ear has been smelling nasty; old blood. Eurgh. It doesn't seem to hurt him too much, and it's not awfully itchy, as ear mites would be ...
... but he needs surgery. And the surgeon our vet recommended is 30 miles outside the city limits (in Buffalo Grove, oddly, where I spent 19 unpleasant months covering the community. In fact, when our vet handed BB the booklet, I thought "I'll bet this is somewhere way the fuck out, please let me be wrong," and of course I wasn't. Fucking Buffalo Grove.) Since Phil goes unhappily nuts for the 10 minutes it takes us to drive to the regular vet, this promises to be extraordinarily stressful for him, and for us. Especially since he'll have to go out for a consult, and then back out for the actual surgery.
It's going to cost, too, but to not do it would be wrong. There is also the possibility, we're told, that the polyp may have grown through the eardrum; and that may mean they can't remove the entire thing, and that it may grow back. Aaack.
Poor guy, he's really so forgiving of us. He's already climbing back into my lap, and wanting to be petted. I love him, and I hate stressing him out.
In happier human news, I feel much better. And it's the weekend. So there's that.
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