After a few days of being scarce, Sophie the cat showed up this morning limping. I inspected her and discovered a pretty gross gash on one of her back legs, so naturally I had to take her to the vet. Thirty minutes after I dropped her off, the vet called.
Vet: Sophie's going to require some stitches.
Me: Oh no! Okay.
Vet: She'll have to be put under anasthesia for that, so we need your consent.
Me: Oh. Okay.
Vet: And we'll need to do some blood work before we put her under, which will be $87.
Me: So what you're saying is we should consider euthanizing?
Apparently she came through the surgery just fine—blood work was totally clear, of course—and we can pick her up in a couple of hours. Also, breaking news: Our drainage issue in the backyard will now have to wait, since the vet bill is what our landscaper quoted us, almost to the dollar. With the added bonus of Sophie having to wear The Cone of Shame, which is fantastic. And by "fantastic" I mean "the crap is about to hit the fan."
The vet says the gash in her leg was huge, and it appears she got it caught somewhere. Gang activity is unlikely, in other words. Which makes sense, because this is the cat who in a matter of milliseconds tangled her leg so severely in Christmas tree lights we had to cut the wires. This is also the cat who got stuck up a giant oak for five days.
By my calculations, we'll only have to go through this six more times.