When you look at Mugsy you see an adorable Persian kitten with eyes just wide enough to make him look a little crazy. They match his personality. He likes to run around my condo like a perpetual meth addict, bounding up and down the stairs and sliding across the hardwood floor as if he’s saying in his best Mad TV Stewart impression, “Look what I can do!” He’s your average kitten. My friends complain that he behaves like an unruly child but that’s probably because I spoil him with material things to make up for the fact that I’m never home. I’m going to make a great mom one day.

Mugsy taught me last week that cats don’t always land safely on all fours. Especially when they fall 12 feet off the metal stairs and onto the wooden floor. My little Mugsy actually broke his leg! Broke it!! I quickly sprung into action by freaking out and sobbing uncontrollably while wondering what I should do. My boyfriend took it from there. We drove him to the emergency overnight vet where they grilled me like the DCF: So exactly what time did you go to bed? And when did you discover that he had “fallen”? Do you have any other cats? How is HE doing? When was the last time you fed them? Where is their father? How often do you leave them home alone? In the end I paid them $500 to tell me there’s nothing they could do, but they did take these great quality high-tech x-rays that clearly showed – in case you couldn’t tell by the way he was limping on three paws – that Mugsy broke his leg.

We took him to the surgeon as soon as they opened up the next morning. Now, let me tell you, if someone had held a gun to my head last week and demanded that I hand over $3,000 I wouldn’t have been able to do it. They’d have to shoot me. I could drain my bank account and max out all my credit cards and I STILL wouldn’t have $3,000. If anyone ever tried to steal my identity they’d end up ruining their credit. I have that kind of money in Sims Social cash but that‘s going toward a new Jacuzzi in the virtual game world I live in. It‘s nicer there. However, when the veterinarian tells me to hand over $3,000… well, I still don’t have it but I somehow manage to find it. I just won’t eat for the next two months. Until then the only thing harder to find was my car when I’d forgotten to take note of what cartoon character I’d parked under in the Universal Orlando parking lot. My boyfriend joked that $3,000 can buy TWO Alaskan Klee Kai puppies. I gave him one look and he didn’t make any more jokes that day. My dad said I should rename him Mug$y.

The hardest part about this whole ordeal, besides paying the bill, was coaxing Mug$y out of the carrier when I brought him home. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to come out, it was that he couldn’t. Literally. The cone around his head was bigger than the opening. The vet must‘ve used a shoe horn to get him in there. He kept bumping it and straining his neck, trying to bust through it like the hulk. Whenever I tried to help him he would yelp in pain. I ended up dismantling the damn thing and he came stumbling out like a drunken sailor. His leg was stitched and he was pumped full of pain killers. Charlie Sheen would’ve been jealous.

Mug$y appears to be taking it in stride… meaning he sits in his cage, with his little cone head and hopes for an Oscar in his role as the “Saddest. Cat. Ever.” He doesn’t know it but he’ll have to stay in there for TWO more months while he heals. For $3,000, damn it, he better be doing back flips when he comes out.