An exercise in futility

I joke about my cat Shrapnel being one of the undead as an explanation for why he is still alive and kicking (it *would* explain why I can never take a decent photo of him) but I know that a 20-year-old cat has three paws in the grave, no matter how good of a shape he's in. So to help him in his twilight years and lessen his arthritis, we have him on an anti-inflammatory that can cause liver damage if it is given long-term. Did I mention that the cat is 20 years old? How much longer is he going to be around, anyways? (A vet tech recently told me that she was pulling for her cat to make it to 30. God, I wish.) So Saturday we had to take Shrapnel in to get his blood checked to make sure his liver wasn't failing from the medicine. I understand why the vet office wanted to check, but we were planning on giving it to him no matter what they found out.*

So, to sum: Saturday we had to rent a car and submit the cat to the stress that a vet visit brings so that he could have a $150 bloodwork test done that we were planning on ignoring the results of either way. Good times.

* Got the results back today: a clean bill of health. Huzzah! May he have many more years of love-mauling** ahead of him.

** For an explanation of love-mauling, go to this oldie but goodie by the Oatmeal: http://theoatmeal.com/comics/kitty_pet.