The patient -- a forty-year-old man -- says his back is killing him. He has sciatica. He is on Oxycodone, but his vial is empty and his doctor won't give him a refill.
I look at the vial. It was filled six days ago. You should still have pills left, I say.
"You won't believe this," he says, "but I didn't take the pills. I have trouble opening the bottles so I leave the tops off my meds. The cat knocked the bottle over a couple days ago and the pills went into the kitty litter and got covered with kittycrap."
"You called your doctor and told him about it?"
He nods.
"He didn't believe you, huh?"
"Nope."
"Did the cat eat any of the pills?"
His eyes suddenly brighten.
"Yeah, you know, come to think of it," he says. "I noticed there was something wrong with the cat. He didn't move for two days, and he just started coming around this morning."
"Really?"
"The darn cat must have got into the pills."
"Well, you be sure to tell them that at the ER."
"I will. I should have told that to the doctor. I just wasn't thinking. There's the proof."
We take him to the ER and leave him in the waiting room. As I give the registrar his name and information, I look back at him. He looks hopeful.
