After several hours at the local vet, and at the emergency vet hospital in Daytona Beach--where the only orthopedic veterinarian resides in a 100 mile radius--it is official. Our sweet Roosevelt has broken his hip.
Roosey is a young cat (about 18 months old) and is relatively healthy otherwise. So there's no reason not to perform surgery. We are told he should recover nicely. When Marty and I left the vet hospital and I looked at the astronomical estimate we're committed to, I said to Marty, "That boy owes me grandchildren."*
Our vet said the injury is common in young male cats. The analogy for this type of injury that was created was along the lines of a 22 year old man, out past 11 p.m. in the wilderness with his buddies. Before fate slaps him upside the head, the young man in question utters the words, "hold my beer." Essentially Roosevelt's not fully developed frontal cortex talked him into doing some dumbassery stunt thinking it would go well. Our theory is this happened when he zoomed out of the house two days ago and tried to jump the fence.
Currently, Roosey is sleeping in the dog crate, doped up on two different pain meds and curled up dozing in the (unused) litter box instead of his comfy pillow. When Buck wakes up, I have a few ideas on how to modify this arrangement to create more room in his cellblock, but it will take a bit of engineering.
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| Looking forward to the day he can do this again. |
*Lest you have an opinion about who should pay for Buck's cat's surgery, please keep it to yourself, thankyouverymuch. Marty and I are fully aware of what we are doing and don't need others sharing their thoughts with me about our young adults and their life journey. I've heard from enough people over the summer who offered their unsolicited opinions. I wrote the above because I'm interested in grandchildren. Eventually.
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