I never had a cat. Never wanted one. Still don’t. But three years ago, a stray cat adopted me. I suspect she belonged to the people in a nearby house that was sold and torn down to build a condominium. I imagine the cat had “gone walkabout” the day the family was moving out of the condemned house. By the time she returned, they and their house were gone.
Apparently, the cat decided that the upholstered swing on my covered upstairs patio was the next best thing to a homeless shelter. And the two birdbaths in my garden were her personal soup kitchen serving catch-of-the-day delicacies ranging from fresh squab to hummingbird tongues. Despite three weeks of my yelling and throwing things at her, she kept returning.
One day, my wife and I came out on the patio and found the cat firmly ensconced on the swing. She refused to leave even during this face-to-muzzle confrontation. She just stood her ground and squeaked at me. That’s when we began calling her “Squeaks.” My wife figured Squeaks was starving and said we should feed her. So I broke into my Covid-19 survival supplies and fed her a can of tuna. Apparently in Squeaks’ mind, that one can of tuna meant I was making a lifelong commitment to her care and feeding.
It took a few days before we were willing to let Squeaks in the house. But when we did, I was pleasantly surprised to see she knew how to use the litter box. So I was willing to let her spend the next few nights inside the enclosed porch. A few days later, we decided to let her have full run of the house. That first night, to show her gratitude, Squeaks hopped up onto our bed with us. Looking us straight in the eyes, she peed a lake in the middle of our down-filled quilt.
For me, that was a deal breaker. The next day I posted her picture on the supermarket bulletin board saying “Found Cat Available For Free. Includes free bag of cat food, kitty litter and a down-filled quilt.” Nobody called. It’s been three years.
Which brings me to my latest feline adventure. A couple of weeks ago, Squeaks began to throw up shortly after eating her breakfast. I had grown accustomed to the occasional hair ball, but this was clearly her undigested breakfast. And it was happening every day. So I decided to take her to the veterinarian, though I knew she would hate going. The last time she went was three years ago, and she came back without her ovaries and uterus. You don’t forget something like that.
By the time I’d wrestled her into the cat carrier, it was raining outside. Just a sprinkle, but enough to get her wet as I was putting her in the car. She was getting stressed out. I put her in the front seat so I could calm her while driving. Because the rain was just a drizzle, I set the windshield wipers to operate once every ten seconds. Unfortunately, she would be startled by the sudden movement of the wiper across the windshield, and then nothing for 10 seconds. Just about the time she calmed down, there was another sudden movement of the wiper. More stress. Worse yet, my aging wiper blades would make an irritating noise on each upstroke. It sounded like uncontrolled flatulence. The cat was not amused.
As I backed out onto the cobblestone street, her cage began to bounce and rattle. She kept poking her paw through the cage as if desperately reaching for the emergency brake. Clearly, this road trip was not going to be the cat’s meow.
She was even less happy about the 50-ft sprint through the rain from the parking lot to the doctor’s office. And then we had to run the gauntlet of canine patients in the waiting room. By the time the doctor came in, Squeaks was a bundle of nerves. He tried to calm her with soothing words and gentle petting. But then he had to pry open her mouth for the oral exam, and we were back to base one. She tolerated his cold stethoscope on her tummy, but then he decided to take her temperature, and all hell broke loose. For those of you who don’t know much about cats, they don’t like having a thermometer shoved up their butt. Who does?
Things went a little better while he took some X-rays. But it took three people to hold her down to get a blood sample. And from the looks of things, I suspect she managed to draw more blood than they did. During the fray, she provided a generous urine sample, whether they wanted one or not.
It was now time for the diagnosis. He put the X-ray of her abdomen up on the screen. I never could make heads or tails of X-rays. In fact for the first few minutes, I had mistaken her front end for her back end. The doctor pointed out that her intestines were full. Thank heavens, a laxative would solve the problem. I was afraid he was considering an enema. He also suggested I set up two litter boxes, rather than just one. I’m not quite sure of the logic that two boxes would stimulate more frequent bowel movements. I live in a house with three bathrooms, and I still have to take Metamucil gummy bears every night just to make use of one of them.
The tests showed some problems with her kidneys and liver. Nothing too serious. He could treat it with a special diet. No more champagne and caviar. So instead of high priced cat food I’d been buying from the vet, I now had to pay an even higher price for the feline equivalent of Jenny Craig.
She also had a urinary tract infection, for which he gave her a shot. He said the infection could be caused by stress. Stress? I can’t imagine why she would be under stress. She gets four square meals a day, a half bag of treats, and she sleeps most of the time between meals. The only stress she’s had in the past three years was coming to the vet today. You want to talk about stress? I’m the one with all the stress. I can no longer watch beautiful birds in my back yard because you know who was ambushing them by my bird baths. I had to tear out my butterfly garden because you know who was clobbering the endangered Monarch butterflies. And I’m the guy who has to rescue the baby geckos that you know who chases around my kitchen. If it weren’t for you know who, I could buy myself a cute little certified emotional support service dog.
Don’t get me wrong. I hope Squeaks gets better. But just in case, I’m planning to update that poster on the supermarket bulletin board. “Five-Year-Old Cat Available Free. Female. Fixed. Operators are waiting for your call. P.S. — In the interest of full disclosure, she has minor kidney and liver problems, occasional constipation, and might pee on your down-filled quilt.”
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