Pandora's Joke
by Kim Ellis
 

          “Where is that cat?” I ask myself, peering once again out the glass door in the kitchen.  Ziggy, the furry cat, showed up right on time.  But where is Pandora?  Usually she is scratching at the doorframe, making irritated noises as I enter the kitchen at 6:30 am.  While I shuffle around in my slippers and fill the food bowl, she is usually twining around my legs, tripping me up in her hunger.  But this morning, it is almost 7:00, time for me to leave for work, when the fat black cat finally appears.  I let her in the door and see that she is limping.  She bypasses the food dish and limps to her favorite spot on the rug by the linen closet door. 

          If Pandora isn’t eating, we’ve got a problem.  Glancing at the clock, I kneel beside her and carefully examine her leg as much as she’ll allow.  No blood or bites are visible.  No open wounds.  She doesn’t flinch or squirm when I feel for lumps.  I make a quick triage decision: this—whatever it is—can wait until I get home.

          While at school, during my lunch break, I call a local veterinary office.  It will cost $46.50 just for the exam.  I consider my options.  We have a dear friend who is a veterinarian in Goshen.  I could take Pandora there.  But it is Friday afternoon, and they are observant Jews, no doubt getting ready for Shabbas.  Driving to Goshen would mean a 45-minute ride with a howling caged cat, and possibly another trip to retrieve her later in the week.  Local is better, I decide.  The appointment is for 5:00.

          By 5:30, Pandora and I are still waiting for the vet.  There has been a doggie emergency.  Pandora sits quietly in her pet carrier while I peruse a magazine article about Barbara Walter’s new TV special.  I tap my foot to the Irish music playing on the stereo system.  It is St. Patrick’s Day.

          An elderly couple joins us in the waiting room.  The woman is carrying a fat, old, ugly Chihuahua.  The receptionist greets them and the dog, whose name is Dakota.  The woman passes Dakota to her husband, who murmurs endearments into Dakota’s graying ears.  “Yes, you’re such a good girl, baby dog, little sweetums.”

          The woman begins to talk to the receptionist.  Dakota, it seems, has had a hysterectomy recently, and is here to get the stitches out.  There were some complications with an infection as well.  The couple had been away in Georgia at a funeral and when they returned to New York, they had problems with the vet hospital staff.  Dakota was held for ransom until a portion of the bill was paid.  In addition, the staff person on duty was rude. 

          Interesting to me is the fact that the bill in question was almost $4000.  The couple, however, is not complaining about the cost but about the treatment they received from the staff.  I begin to wonder how much this Pandora leg problem is going to cost me.

          The vet sees Dakota and decides that the stitches need to be left in for a few more days.  At last, Pandora is placed on the examination table.  She finds the slippery metal table nonnegotiable with her bad leg, so she lies down.  The vet, a young woman, examines Pandora with great thoroughness.  She peers in Pan’s eyes and ears, combs her fur, and takes her temperature.  Except for the rectal temperature part, Pandora purrs through it all.  She has been craving attention since all our kids are now grown and living away from home. 

          Finally the vet examines Pandora’s leg.  Dr. Curtis starts high up at the hip and palpates carefully centimeter by centimeter.  Pandora doesn’t blink or make the smallest fuss, until Dr. Curtis gets to her toes.  She presses out the first claw—nothing.  The second claw—nothing.  The third claw and voila!

          “There’s the trouble,” says Dr. Curtis.  She shows me a crushed and swollen claw. 

          “The way she was limping, I thought something was broken,” I say.

          “Oh, this can be quite painful,” Dr. Curtis remarks, as if defending Pandora’s dramatic carryings on.

          Me, I’m disgusted and relieved at the same time.  The vet goes away to type up the estimate for treatment, while I pet Pandora and ponder what to do next.  I could have taken care of this small wound by myself.  Heck, I’ve doctored dogs that have fought with raccoons, and cats with infected eyes or cystosis.  But it’s late and I’m hungry and I’m here.  When the assistant hands me the estimate, I look at the figure: $150 and sigh.  “Go ahead.”

          I return to the waiting room and write out a check while Pandora is doctored.  She is given an antibiotic and a painkiller.  Her leg is bandaged and wrapped in a purple elastic sock.  She hasn’t had this much attention in years.  She certainly isn’t complaining.  This is the kind of attention to which she wants to become accustomed.

          Back in the cat carrier with her purple sock, Pandora rides quietly in her glory all the way home.  My mind is going over the experience.  The optimistic voice says, “Hey, it could have been a lot worse.  You can be grateful it wasn’t serious.”  Then the finance manager in me wails, “One hundred fifty dollars for a broken nail?  You’ve got to be kidding!”

          We get to the house; I give Pandora her first dose of antibiotic and see that she is comfortably settled.  She doesn’t seem to be in pain; far from it, she seems quite happy to have an excuse to rest.  It’s as if she knows that now I won’t make her go outside.

          Later, I call my best friend, who has a cute Irish Jack Russell, and tell her the story.  “Oy, Pandora is such a drama queen,” she says.  “All that for a broken nail!”

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