Franco gets so frisky and happy when I play guitar. Sitting on porch tonight, at dusk, waiting on a tropical storm to decide what it's gonna do…. And  Franco just loves it when I am sitting still for once. I play guitar, old rolling chords and gypsy trills, no voice, and he sniffs grass and hops from stone to stone, and rolls on the warm sidewalk.

And I realize I am playing minor chords like Scotti used to do, and then it hits me like a ton of bricks: the reason Franco loves the music.

Scotti, playing to him from the beginning, as a kitten, rescued from the cage. I know Scotti played to him all the time.

Well, you know we will never forget you.

"Don't get too attached."

Stupid saying I hear whenever i rescue a kitten or a pup or a wild badger baby.

Why not get attached you stupid jerks?

(this blog has been edited for curse words)

Over the years (well, since becoming an adult and fiscally responsible for my pets) I've slipped into this habit of paying for every little thing my fancy pants uptown New Orleans vet recommended.... A mixture of fear and adoration for my pet drove the inability to say no. I only started questioning it when the vet majorly MESSED up, on a procedure that she said was essential for Franco's comfort and happiness. She said he had to have two teeth pulled.

When we picked him up a day later (after full anesthesia) we took him home, with his little bandage where the IV had been wrapped around his foot. Hours later, He was tugging on it with his teeth, and so Dave and I attempted to pull it off him. To our horror (and much like a horror movie) blood started spurting everywhere. It was a geyser shooting out of his leg!!! The vet had forgotten to remove the DURN IV thingie. We were screaming and swearing and crying... I was convinced I would drain my cat dry there in my kitchen floor. Poor Franco was probably terrified and flailing in my arms while Dave was on the phone with the emergency room.

OK, so not our finest hour in terms of coolheaded common sense. We got the IV out eventually. And I wrote the vet a pissed off letter (she tried to smooth things over with a gift of cat treats, but I passed) and I found a new vet.

Now when the new vet told me that eight year old Franco has another tooth that needs to be pulled, I said no. I guess Franc just has bad teeth! How many times in one cat's life should he be put under total anesthesia? Sheez. Besides, he is one happy cat -- and he's getting more dental care than we do. Out of guilt, I bought a bottle of kitty dental wash for $20, which we never use. DURNIT!! More money wasted.

We also have little Zooey, who is a silver brown tabby princess. She's pretty young... Going on three this fall. No health problems so far.

Anyways, it took this traumatic event for me to realize that vets are not always right about the services they recommend, and I CAN say no and take some ownership over their health. I am sure Franco's bad teeth would have fallen out eventually.

Now, I am even considering the wisdom of annual boosters for my kitties. We keep getting reminder cards from the vet. I think we may skip it this year. And I am sure my cats will thank me.

My first cat was sweet Trixie. A calico cat. We took Trixie in when I was six years old. We took her to the vet a handful of times in her life..... Mostly at the beginning. We also fed her regular old Purina -- she took nibbles of cheese and yogurt and milk and tuna. (I don't feed my new kitties things like that anymore). I am sure during the lean times of our lives, she ate Hy-Top brandless cat food, too. She lived to be 23 years old. So, my parents did something right.

Here's a really great article from SLATE on this topic:
http://www.slate.com/id/2176521