Here kitty, kitty . . .

Well, we finally did it. After weeks of hemming and hawing, we now have a cat. The tipping point was a chance encounter in a friend’s backyard. We stopped over for a barbecue, and a tiny stray came mincing through the garden to greet us. Then she hopped up in my lap, curled in a ball and started purring. It’s very easy to say “no” to a theoretical cat. It’s very, very hard to say “no” to a homeless flesh-and-blood feline, especially such a charming one.

So last week, we bought a cat carrier and picked her up. “Izzy” has adjusted to life indoors beautifully. She uses the litterbox, chases toy mice, sleeps with us and has expressed no desire to go outside. Not surprising, really. You wouldn’t be so psyched about the outdoors either had you once been forced to live on the streets.

This week was Izzy’s first visit to the vet. Based on her size, habits and teeth, he thinks she is about 7 or 8 months old. (“She’s a ‘tween,’ just like Miley Cyrus. We’ll call you Izzy Cyrus, won’t we!” the vet gushed. Which raises two obvious questions: What does my 40-year-old vet know about teenage pop sensation Miley Cyrus? And why does he feel a need to share this knowledge with me, making himself appear even stranger than he probably is?)

This being the US, it shouldn’t surprise me that after one vet visit we’ve already spent more on Izzy’s healthcare than I have on my own. Next week she goes in to get spayed. My vet charges $250–and that’s cheap. I called another vet in Stroller Central (Park Slope) and they charge $450! Call me heartless, but it’s a cat. They can’t figure out some way of cutting costs? My vet actually offers a $65 test (optional, thank goodness) to make sure that the cat won’t have an adverse reaction to the anesthetic. I can’t even afford to spend $65 on myself for optional procedures. (If I could, I might consider a massage, or botox).

Enough venting! The point is that she is very sweet and cute, and we’re happy to have her.