Last week my sister's poor little cat died. She was old, and lived a good cat life. My sister called me, crying, and asked for my help, and so of course I went. The next hour was sad and absurd and disturbing all at the same time, as we wrapped its little body in a towel, and drove it to the vet.
And after that adventure, of course I reflected on my stupid feline.
Mandrake never had health problems. Mandrake never went to the vet. He went for an afternoon to the Humane Society to be “fixed” 10 years ago, and that was that.
And after that adventure, of course I reflected on my stupid feline.
Mandrake never had health problems. Mandrake never went to the vet. He went for an afternoon to the Humane Society to be “fixed” 10 years ago, and that was that.
Until last year.
Last year Mandrake was lying listless on
the ground for days. He wouldn’t move, eat, anything. And this is not a usually
mellow cat. It is not a friendly cat. If you come within 4 feet of him, all you
will see is a flash of black, with a small tuft of fur on the carpet as the
only clue that he used to be close to you. You cannot pet him with your hands.
He will only sometimes allow you to pet him with your feet. (I know, it's weird.) My sister and niece
have watched him and fed him as I travel for work, and they
saw him only once, as he lashed out with his claws, growling and hissing,
from the depths of my closet.
So this lethargy, this allowing me to pet him, lay by him, mess with him, was obviously out of character. I knew this
silly, stupid cat was not ok.
And, in turn, I was embarrassingly not ok.
I would only need to look at him languidly lying in the middle of the room and I would begin to cry. When it became apparent that he needed medical care, I had to call several vets, because as I would describe the symptoms on the phone I would burst into tears. Then, appalled and embarrassed at my own behavior, I would hang up and call the next one. I found a vet that made house calls for a reasonable price, as I knew my cat was not a crate-able cat. All the vet managed to do was give him a quick antibiotic shot, and both me and the good Doctor had severe battle wounds from the process.
Later that evening, there was no improvement. I had borrowed
a cat health encyclopedia from my dear neighbors (the epitome of cat ladies,
who have an urn filled with a past cat’s ashes, complete with it’s paw print in
ceramic on the lid sitting on their mantle) and as I read about all the different possible ailments, my
anxiety was unbearable. So I borrowed a carrier (a true testament to how lousy
Manny felt was how he just walked into the cage) and took him to the animal ER.
I hadn’t known until that evening that such a thing even existed.
$400, and a few hours later, I had a cat with 10 stitches on it’s rear from a
huge abscess. They gave me some pain medication (aka cat tranquilizer) and sent
me on my way. And for the next week my house was transformed into a cat rehabilitation center. My
bed turned into a cat hospital bed, I dealt with giving medicine,
bringing disgusting food to him, placing warm compresses on the wound site, and the terrible Cone of Shame.
And while dealing with the ridiculous time and money that
this had taken I had to think about why I was even doing this for a cat. A
cat that will not likely even live all that much longer. (except that he will, because he is going to live forever...)
I’ve had Mandrake, aka Manny, for 12 years now. 12 years, of
which I’ve worked in 9 different locations, lived in 5 different houses, had ups
and downs and changes and heartaches.
And the thing about this cat is that through all of this he
exhibits the ONE characteristic I am searching for in a potential
boyfriend/husband/mate.
He is FIERCELY loyal.
This cat does not like anyone.
Any other living thing is worthy of hissing at, hiding from,
and all the true distain that only a cat can show.
But this cat LOVES me.
This cat has attacked roommates, he has peed on my best friend's
bed when she came to stay, he has been difficult and mean and cranky.
But never to ME. To
me he has to lay directly on top of me. He has to sit right by me, touching me. He has to be in
the same room I’m in. He has to sleep with me at night. If I’m gone for a few days, he’ll follow me around mewing
his displeasure at my absence, but then sit on me, purring loud enough to wake
the dead as soon as he gets the chance.
This dumb cat loves me more than he loves any other living
thing on earth, a role thus far reserved for a significant other, but as of yet unfulfilled in my life. And while I
realize a cat cannot truly fulfill that role, and I realize it is a slippery
slope as a single lady with a cat, I get why us old single ladies have them.
Unabashed Adoration.
My Holy Grail.
This cat, this silly, temperamental, ridiculous cat, will have to do
for now.
