So, yesterday Sean took Mister to Greenville, SC to get his radioactive iodine. Because of the adventures of two nights ago, I never got my cuddling in with him, but I did get to sleep with him the night before. Then finally, even though I felt terrible about this, I closed the door early in the morning and spent ten or fifteen minutes cuddling with him and petting him before we had to put him in the carrier to leave. It was pretty brutal. And by that, I mean on me. (I'm sure Mister was none the happier either though.) The vet tech says he's doing fine, albeit sleeping in his potty. That stinks. (Whoops--unintentional funny there...) But at least he's eating now, which is a step up from yesterday.
So, back to the previous story…as you may recall during my last blog, we had called our local animal rescues and could find no takers for our sick kitty. So, I decided to take a leap of faith and just drive over to one. We got the same story there—they couldn’t possibly take on another cat right now—but then an interesting thing happened. This guy behind us said he’d overheard our story and that his cousin was a vet and he’d had some experience with cat triage, so could he come take a look at the kitty? We said sure. While we were talking to this very nice guy, a volunteer for the rescue organization came up and asked us about the cat. Turns out she did some work for a local feral Trap/Neuter/Release program, and thought she might be able to take the cat, get her spayed (or neutered—we really weren’t sure which), get her all her shots and a combo test (FLV and FIV), and release her back into the outdoors.
It was like a prayer had been answered. There was no way we would have been able to keep that poor kitty at our house with everything going on with Mister, nor was there any way I could take her to the vet the next morning, because my boss is out of town right now. And if you’ve ever needed to go to an Emergency Vet (and I sincerely hope you haven't), you know that this was going to be a very expensive option for a kitty that wasn’t even ours. Only thing was, until we knew what, if anything, was wrong with the cat, the feral rescue place would not take her. Obviously, neutering a sick cat is ill-advised, and the feral place didn’t have the resources to take care of that part. Nor would we want to do all this if the cat was seriously ill and needed medical attention.
It was like a prayer had been answered. There was no way we would have been able to keep that poor kitty at our house with everything going on with Mister, nor was there any way I could take her to the vet the next morning, because my boss is out of town right now. And if you’ve ever needed to go to an Emergency Vet (and I sincerely hope you haven't), you know that this was going to be a very expensive option for a kitty that wasn’t even ours. Only thing was, until we knew what, if anything, was wrong with the cat, the feral rescue place would not take her. Obviously, neutering a sick cat is ill-advised, and the feral place didn’t have the resources to take care of that part. Nor would we want to do all this if the cat was seriously ill and needed medical attention.
Long story short, the animal rescue place gave us the name and phone number of a vet that was open until 11pm, and that would be cheaper than the ER vet, and this nice lady we met (we’ll call her “D”), agreed to come with us. The rescue place gave her a large crate to temporarily keep the kitty in, a litter box and kitty litter, and a bag and several cans of cat food. We were set.
Off we went to the nice, late-houred vet in East Asheville. We walked in and explained our situation, and were given several options for treatment, depending on just how bad the kitty seemed when the vet took his initial assessment. We decided to wait. And it was truly one of the weirdest, most interesting nights of my life. Where to even begin?...
First of all, there was this poor bird who was being boarded in the back of the office, who would not stop yowling. I know, I know...you're saying to yourself right now, "wait, birds don't yowl." Well, this one did. Apparently, his owners came by to visit him today, and he went into a deep, very loud depression, assuming that now he was being left behind forever with the stinky antiseptic smells and scary surgery implements. He was so pitiful. And we're pretty sure he must live with cats, because he sounded exactly like a woeful Siamese.
Then, there were the four chinchillas in the corner, in a four-leveled crate/playpen, taking their cute little dust baths in volcanic ash. (Yes, you heard me right. Apparently, chinchillas can't take baths with water because the weight of their fur is so heavy that it will crush their organs and they will die. It's true. Look it up.)
There was the "shop cat," whose name is Fred. Fred sits in a bed on the counter and only comes out of his bed to check out the visitors and hang out on top of the bird cage, with his friend the bird (a different one) underneath. Never got the bird's name. I kind of feel bad about that.
Then there were the other patients who came in, and their people. The huge, beautiful grey Great Dane with the soulful, intelligent eyes. She was terrified beyond belief of an Australian Shepherd named Molly who was about a third her size, but who hated other girl dogs and barked ferociously at her. It was sad enough watching the poor Great Dane girl tuck her whip-like tail between her legs and cower sadly into the exam room. It was even more poignant when she came back out and her mom told us that she was three going on four, but would not make it to her fourth birthday because she is riddled with cancer. To make things worse, she came in because she is allergic to her pain med, so she doesn't even have that now. It just about broke my heart.
Also very sad was the Bernese Mountain Dog/Mastiff mix who was fifteen, and was covered up with very large tumors. One of them was so large and hung down so far between her legs that you would have sworn (no joke) she was an un-neutered male. They couldn't really operate on her because she was so old that they didn't think she'd survive the anesthesia. She got valiantly up to her feet when it was time to see the vet though. It took her a few minutes, and the patient help of her two young human companions, but she did it.
Molly, meanwhile, had taken a shine to me, and although she proudly displayed her "therapy dog" jacket thing, she kept leaning into me to pet her. She was a sweet girl, as long as you didn't happen to be a female dog. Molly's mom had just moved up here from New Orleans, where she told harrowing tales of crime and trips to the grocery store that had turned deadly.
Then, an older man and a younger woman came in carrying a Jack Russell Terrier. He had visible lacerations on his back legs, but he didn't appear to have been bitten by anything. They had no idea how it had happened. I liked the older man instantly because he went right up to Fred, who was now busily napping on the birdcage, petted him tenderly on his head and back and said something funny like: "How are you doing, Useless?"
After he and the other lady (who turned out to be his daughter) got checked in and settled, I glanced over from our conversation with D (who had turned out to be a really interesting person in her own right), and noticed that the older gentleman had turned his leash into a really well-made noose. I made some kind of crack about how he was making me nervous, and Sean laughed and said that his dad used to do knots like that all the time--had learned them in the Navy. His daughter proudly said her dad was a World War II vet. He'd been in four different theaters in Europe, including Normandy and the Battle of the Bulge. The next twenty minutes or so were filled with riveting first-hand stories of war, and a few about some of the Nazis themselves, which I'm pretty sure were not first-hand, for the most part. It felt like an honor to get to meet him and talk with him, much like I used to feel when Sean's dad was still alive. Both were men who had not let the gruesome, grueling things they experienced dampen their outlook on life--men who expressed a healthy sense of humor, and who loved cats. How could you not be impressed by that?
Finally, the veterinarian was just a hoot. At one point, D asked him about the bird that Fred liked to perch on. She asked what kind of finch it was. The veterinarian, without missing a beat, looked up and asked, "There are different kinds of finches?" Maybe it was just the tension of still not knowing at this point what was wrong with the kitten, but I just completely cracked up. It seemed to egg him on a bit, because then he said: "As far as I'm concerned, there are only two kinds of birds--the kind you look at and the kind you eat." I'm a vegetarian, but I still found this amusing, coming from a vet.
All was well that ended well--the "kitten" turned out to be a full-grown, 3.5 pound cat, that we think is female. Honestly, the vet took so much abuse trying to determine even that that he never got a chance to check her booties, so to speak. And it turns out she didn't have FLV (Feline Leukemia) or FIV (Feline Immunodeficiency Virus), which was a very hopeful thing. Just a really bad upper respiratory infection, which was treatable with an injection of antibiotics.
D said today that she is finally eating solid foods and drinking her water, so this is all good. And she may not turn out to be feral after all--D said she was responsive to her voice now and seemed to be trying to communicate, which would be pretty rare for a cat that truly hated people. The fact that when Sean found her, she seemed to be calling for help has got to count for something.
If you know anybody who might be interested in a VERY small white cat with big orange spots, send 'em my way. She's hopefully well on her way to a full recovery.
Off we went to the nice, late-houred vet in East Asheville. We walked in and explained our situation, and were given several options for treatment, depending on just how bad the kitty seemed when the vet took his initial assessment. We decided to wait. And it was truly one of the weirdest, most interesting nights of my life. Where to even begin?...
First of all, there was this poor bird who was being boarded in the back of the office, who would not stop yowling. I know, I know...you're saying to yourself right now, "wait, birds don't yowl." Well, this one did. Apparently, his owners came by to visit him today, and he went into a deep, very loud depression, assuming that now he was being left behind forever with the stinky antiseptic smells and scary surgery implements. He was so pitiful. And we're pretty sure he must live with cats, because he sounded exactly like a woeful Siamese.
Then, there were the four chinchillas in the corner, in a four-leveled crate/playpen, taking their cute little dust baths in volcanic ash. (Yes, you heard me right. Apparently, chinchillas can't take baths with water because the weight of their fur is so heavy that it will crush their organs and they will die. It's true. Look it up.)
There was the "shop cat," whose name is Fred. Fred sits in a bed on the counter and only comes out of his bed to check out the visitors and hang out on top of the bird cage, with his friend the bird (a different one) underneath. Never got the bird's name. I kind of feel bad about that.
Then there were the other patients who came in, and their people. The huge, beautiful grey Great Dane with the soulful, intelligent eyes. She was terrified beyond belief of an Australian Shepherd named Molly who was about a third her size, but who hated other girl dogs and barked ferociously at her. It was sad enough watching the poor Great Dane girl tuck her whip-like tail between her legs and cower sadly into the exam room. It was even more poignant when she came back out and her mom told us that she was three going on four, but would not make it to her fourth birthday because she is riddled with cancer. To make things worse, she came in because she is allergic to her pain med, so she doesn't even have that now. It just about broke my heart.
Also very sad was the Bernese Mountain Dog/Mastiff mix who was fifteen, and was covered up with very large tumors. One of them was so large and hung down so far between her legs that you would have sworn (no joke) she was an un-neutered male. They couldn't really operate on her because she was so old that they didn't think she'd survive the anesthesia. She got valiantly up to her feet when it was time to see the vet though. It took her a few minutes, and the patient help of her two young human companions, but she did it.
Molly, meanwhile, had taken a shine to me, and although she proudly displayed her "therapy dog" jacket thing, she kept leaning into me to pet her. She was a sweet girl, as long as you didn't happen to be a female dog. Molly's mom had just moved up here from New Orleans, where she told harrowing tales of crime and trips to the grocery store that had turned deadly.
Then, an older man and a younger woman came in carrying a Jack Russell Terrier. He had visible lacerations on his back legs, but he didn't appear to have been bitten by anything. They had no idea how it had happened. I liked the older man instantly because he went right up to Fred, who was now busily napping on the birdcage, petted him tenderly on his head and back and said something funny like: "How are you doing, Useless?"
After he and the other lady (who turned out to be his daughter) got checked in and settled, I glanced over from our conversation with D (who had turned out to be a really interesting person in her own right), and noticed that the older gentleman had turned his leash into a really well-made noose. I made some kind of crack about how he was making me nervous, and Sean laughed and said that his dad used to do knots like that all the time--had learned them in the Navy. His daughter proudly said her dad was a World War II vet. He'd been in four different theaters in Europe, including Normandy and the Battle of the Bulge. The next twenty minutes or so were filled with riveting first-hand stories of war, and a few about some of the Nazis themselves, which I'm pretty sure were not first-hand, for the most part. It felt like an honor to get to meet him and talk with him, much like I used to feel when Sean's dad was still alive. Both were men who had not let the gruesome, grueling things they experienced dampen their outlook on life--men who expressed a healthy sense of humor, and who loved cats. How could you not be impressed by that?
Finally, the veterinarian was just a hoot. At one point, D asked him about the bird that Fred liked to perch on. She asked what kind of finch it was. The veterinarian, without missing a beat, looked up and asked, "There are different kinds of finches?" Maybe it was just the tension of still not knowing at this point what was wrong with the kitten, but I just completely cracked up. It seemed to egg him on a bit, because then he said: "As far as I'm concerned, there are only two kinds of birds--the kind you look at and the kind you eat." I'm a vegetarian, but I still found this amusing, coming from a vet.
All was well that ended well--the "kitten" turned out to be a full-grown, 3.5 pound cat, that we think is female. Honestly, the vet took so much abuse trying to determine even that that he never got a chance to check her booties, so to speak. And it turns out she didn't have FLV (Feline Leukemia) or FIV (Feline Immunodeficiency Virus), which was a very hopeful thing. Just a really bad upper respiratory infection, which was treatable with an injection of antibiotics.
D said today that she is finally eating solid foods and drinking her water, so this is all good. And she may not turn out to be feral after all--D said she was responsive to her voice now and seemed to be trying to communicate, which would be pretty rare for a cat that truly hated people. The fact that when Sean found her, she seemed to be calling for help has got to count for something.
If you know anybody who might be interested in a VERY small white cat with big orange spots, send 'em my way. She's hopefully well on her way to a full recovery.
What an adventure! Glad it all turned out well!
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