My cat has a cardiologist. Neither of us does, at least not yet, but our twelve-year-old SPCA cat is officially under the care of a veterinary cardiologist and will begin taking Plavix this week. Seriously.

Baxter has always been the low-maintenance creature in our household. We have had a progression of beloved but high-maintenance pets over the years. The most recent, Vinnie, a rescue Westie who crossed the Rainbow Bridge in June, suffered from chronic liver disease which required multiple daily medications and frequent trips to an internal medicine specialist. For five years. Our other Westie has Addison’s disease, an endocrine disorder managed with monthly shots, daily Prednisone, and careful monitoring. Baxter’s cardiologist is associated with the same practice as Vinnie’s specialist and when I called to schedule an appointment, they said, “Oh, hi, Anne. Welcome back.” Dear God.

Baxter has always cast a supercilious glance at the dogs constantly being hauled out for their frequent vet appointments. He sits at the top of the stairs, paws crossed and regal in his bearing, probably thinking to himself—“See what you get when you buy purebred animals? Nothing but a genetic shit-show requiring a separate bank account for their medical bills. But, hey, look at me, straight off the streets and healthy as an ox. You don’t always get what you pay for.”

Until this fall, when I noticed a bloody spot at the base of one of Baxter’s teeth. He didn’t seem to be in any major distress, but I figured this warranted a vet visit. The vet looked up at me and said, “I think this might be resorptive tooth disease where the animal’s body actually starts reabsorbing the teeth. It can be very painful, but we won’t know for sure until we can get in there and take X-rays.” Procedure number one—dental cleaning and radiographs under anesthesia and when the vet asked me to make a separate trip to look at the images with her, I knew we were in trouble.

Apparently Baxter’s teeth were severely affected by this disease and in some places, he had two fully formed teeth growing out of the same socket. Makes me cringe just thinking about it. The only treatment is tooth extraction by a veterinary dentist. So, several weeks later, we fasted Baxter overnight and stuffed him into his carrier for a 7 AM appointment. We were told they would examine him and then do the procedure the same day. Of course, it was a contactless appointment, so we sat in the car for what seemed like an eternity until the dentist, a young woman who looked about sixteen, came out and cheerfully informed us that Baxter had a “significant” heart murmur, and they were recommending a cardiac evaluation before putting him under anesthesia. “There’s a group in Lancaster…” Yes, we know it well.

Six weeks later we get to the cardiologist for procedure number two. This involves  an “echocardiogram full and ECG single lead” whatever that means and the pleasant British voice of that vet telling us that Baxter was a “lovely boy” but that there was damage to the heart, possibly as a result of his hyper-thyroidism, and surgery would not necessarily be “dangerous,” but would involve “increased risk.”

Ever the gluttons for punishment, in the midst of all this, we recently brought home a new Westie puppy. We’re getting pet insurance for this one.