We had to take our cat to the vet for an emergency c-section at 10pm Monday night. Hubby stayed home with the three little kids, and the teenager and I loaded up the cat and the three kittens she had already managed to deliver and drove 30 minutes through the dark of night to get to Tufts vet clinic, the only one open 24 hours a day. The only sounds in the car were of Nunu mewing her pain and the teen and I murmuring comforting reassurances to her. Once at the vet, we turned our beloved furball over to the doctors and sat in the waiting room, speaking very little. The teenager patted my arm and held my hand and laid her head on my shoulder. We met with the doctor three different times, and then finally at about 1:30am it was decided that Nunu had to have surgery. It was life or death. We agreed, and were sent home. We drove silently back through the night, my teenager and me. We spoke a little about our relief, how it was fortunate we decided to take her in to be seen, about how grateful we were that Hubby has a tender heart for animals and agreed to pay a small fortune to keep Nunu alive because he knows how we all love her. Then we arrived at the house, dragged ourselves in the door, prayed, and slept. It wasn't a great night, but it ended well. It was quiet. It was peaceful. I will accept that with gratitude.
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