Can't buy me love

Tomorrow, Hannah (seen left, reclining on a copy of The Big Sleep) goes in for her surgery, which is going to cost somewhere in the region of $4,000, on top of the $4,000 we have already paid to get her diagnosed. Even after you subtract the anger I must be feeling about her having cancer in the first place, and also the natural squeals of a tightwad asked to fork over a large amount of money, this strikes me as an appalling amount of money — immoral, even. Vets in the UK charge fees, too, of course, but $4,000 for a diagnosis? I can't turn it down, and nor can I afford it. I am sure they have no need of my custom, knowing only too well that people are wiling to pay through the nose to extend the life of a dying animal. I resent them deeply for that discovery and the ruthlessness with which they wield it.

Postscript: turns out its going to cost $5,000.