The rest of the story

OK, yes Ozzy has a malignant tumor on his hip. But the vet is real confident that she can remove it without any complications and that it hasn't spread. While he's under, they're also going to remove the tumor on his third eyelid, the fatty tumor on his ribs, the benign lump on his chest, and the two small but getting bigger skin tags on his regular eyelids. And they'll clean his teeth while they're at it.

So after the vet explained everything to me and it became clear that this was most likely not a life threatening episode, I showed my true colors and began to obsess over just how much money this is going to cost us. I love my pets, don't me wrong. But I loved them so much more when they were young, cute, and didn't get mortally ill every other Tuesday. (Keep that in mind, Samson. As long as you're cute, young, healthy, and relatively soft and fuzzy, you're in.) Ozzy is ten this year, and that's like, 400 in dog years, so it's not too surprising that he should start to show some wear and tear. Guess I should have bought that extended warranty.

But none of this really bothered me, not even today's astronomical vet bill for the cats' regularly scheduled dental cleaning (and Milhouse's unscheduled tooth extraction--now he has one less weapon.). Why? Two words.

Rock. Band.

I am so totally and utterly hooked, and I tell you what, I look damn fine jamming out to Weezer and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs with Samson strapped to my chest in the Baby Bjorn.