Cat ethics

When we adopted Iggy four years ago from a rescue organization, he had diarrhea for six months. Vet visits and medications and lab tests and special food for our "free" cat ended up costing close to $1,000. What with the expense and the endless mopping up (chronic cat diarrhea in a New York City apartment is grim) and the concern that whatever ailed him (parasites?) might be communicable to humans, we were at the end of our rope. At one point I told my daughter C—for whom Iggy had been a birthday present—that we might have to give him back to the rescue group or to someone who had "outdoor plumbing"—i.e., abundant acreage to sop up the mess. She shamed me by calmly responding, "Oh, Mom, I know you would never do something like that. You're not that kind of person." Well, I am that kind of person but couldn't bring myself to disillusion her.

We never found out what ailed Iggy, but one day, he suddenly acquired intestinal fortitude.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, he lost it again. He has been scooting (for the catless, that means using your entire apartment as toilet paper), barfing and peeing constantly. The vet says Iggy either has a bladder infection or is producing crystals in his urine that are painful or impossible to pass. The latter is more likely in a male cat, but the vet injected Iggy with antibiotics in a "process of elimination" (so to speak) to make sure it was not the former. If that doesn't clear up the problem (we should see improvement within four days), we'll need to take Iggy back for X-rays, lab tests, surgery, special diet, etc. In the meantime, I'm scrubbing the apartment down every morning (the scoots and barfs are nocturnal activities discovered when I step in them as I blunder to the bathroom on awakening—good morning!) and vacuuming scattered litter several times a day.

Of course, the antibiotic shot may be the cure. But if it isn't, at what point can I ethically call it quits?