Coated With Fur: A Blind Cat's Love

by Kristen Nelson

  “I haven’t really noticed,” I replied. “I’ve been up most of the night taking care of a sick cat.” I pointed to the carrier.

  Greg peered into my car, trying to get a peek at Snowflake.

  “He’s so weak he can’t regulate his temperature, so I have to keep him wrapped up with hot water bottles.”

  Greg’s earlier sparkle vanished.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “His liver isn’t working due to fat accumulation. Hopefully, he will respond to treatment because Snowflake is a really nice cat. He’s probably purring right now under the blankets.” I smiled. “Keep your fingers crossed. He needs all the luck he can get.”

  Greg nodded as he handed me the large soda.

  “Will do,” he said, holding up his right hand with two fingers crossed. “Good luck, Snowflake,” he said, then hurried off to prepare the next order.

  Instead of parking at my regular spot across the lot from the clinic’s front door, I pulled right up front. Kim jumped up from the reception desk when she saw the black Probe and met me outside. She wore a blue hoodie zipped up to the top over her scrubs.

  “How’s Snowflake?” she asked quietly. “I wanted to call and check on him but didn’t want to wake you. You know,” she giggled, “just in case you were sleeping.”

  “He’s about the same as last night.” I opened the passenger door and unclipped the seatbelt that secured the carrier. “Still can’t regulate his body temperature.” I pulled the carrier out of the car. “But he hasn’t vomited, so that’s a good sign.”

  Kim held the front door open while I brought Snowflake inside. The incubator was clean and ready for him. Together, we gingerly transferred him from the carrier to the incubator.

  I spotted Goliath in the first run, resting on a quilt. “How are our other campers?”

  “Great,” she responded. “Goliath wolfed down his breakfast this morning. He doesn’t seem painful at all.”

  “And Bianca?”

  “I waited about 30 minutes for her morning pain meds to kick in, and then I expressed her bladder, per your note. She wouldn’t eat her breakfast until I warmed it up. What a diva.” Kim ran her hand through her hair with her nose in the air, mimicking Bianca’s elitist attitude. “Stephanie already called to check on her. She’ll be here soon.”

  “How’s the schedule look for today?”

  “Pretty routine so far,” Kim said, emphasizing so far. “Mostly vaccinations and a kitten check.”

  “I’ll call the Olsons’ with an update on Snowflake, then…”

  “Too late,” Kim interrupted me. “Margaret and Scott were waiting when I arrived this morning.”

  “I told them to come at 9 a.m.,” I protested. “Were they mad that he wasn’t here?”

  “No, they were happy you were getting a little more sleep. I sent them for breakfast.” She looked at her watch. “They’ll be back in about 15 minutes.”

  “Do his 9 o’clock treatments now, before they return,” I replied. I headed for the office, but stopped just inside the hallway in front of the bathroom and lockers. “They can pet him, but don’t let them pick him up. I’m afraid he might vomit after his feeding.” Kim nodded again.

  “Is there anything you want me to tell them, just in case you’re in a room?” Kim asked.

  “No, there isn’t anything new. We spoke last night just after midnight because I thought he was going to die. His respirations were so slow.” I rubbed my eyes. “But he made it, and I called them later with the good news. With this condition, we won’t know for several days if he’s going to make it or not.” I paused. “It’s a waiting game.”

  Kim opened the record sitting on top of the incubator to Snowflake’s treatment page. All of the boxes for his Tuesday morning, 8 o’clock treatments contained check marks. In 10 minutes, he needed his temperature, pulse and respiration rate measured, followed by his first real meal.

  Kim walked from the treatment room to the pharmacy/lab area to get a can of cat food. The birds watched her without making a sound. All sat on their food cups, munching on a breakfast of vegetables mixed with a little corn. Bongo and Romeo went for the corn first while Windsor preferred the peas. He’d grab a pea with his beak, place it on the lip of the dish and then eat out the insides. When it was empty, he pushed the skin off the lip, out of his cage.

  Romeo hung from the perch, face-first into the bowl. Only his tail feathers showed above the rim. When he found something he didn’t like, he pulled it out of the cup and flung it through the air. Bits of vegetables littered the floor below their cages.

  Back in the treatment room, Kim opened the incubator lid and rested it against the wall. “Snowflake,” she whispered. “It’s time for some real food, big guy.” The cat did not respond. He rested, covered with towels, with his eyes closed. Kim caressed his head a few times. On the third pass, Snowflake’s eyes opened for a brief second. He started to purr. Kim slid her stethoscope under the towel and watched the second hand on her watch. Purring echoed through her ears. Since she could not hear his heartbeat over the purring, she decided to feel his pulse with her hand instead. Then, she took his rectal temperature with a digital thermometer. The screen flashed 99.7 degrees F after two minutes.

  “Oh, Snowflake, your temperature is still too low,” Kim whispered to the lethargic feline. “Maybe this will perk you up.” She removed the plastic plug from the feeding tube and slowly flushed in three cc’s of warm water. Snowflake continued to purr without coughing, so she attached the syringe with the liquefied food. She slowly pushed the plunger until it rested against the plastic end. She followed this meal with three cc’s of water to clear all the food out of the tube. Anything left inside could form a solid plug.

  “Hang in there, little buddy,” she whispered again. “Your family will be here soon to see you.” Her cheerful voice contrasted with the genuine signs of worry on her face. She forced a smile as she stroked Snowflake between his ears. Her red fingernail polish made his skin look even more yellow. She closed the top and turned the temperature control to the maximum setting before checking off more boxes on his treatment sheet.

  By 9:30 a.m., the clinic buzzed with activity. Stephanie arrived to visit Bianca at the same time the Olsons’ came to see Snowflake. Appointments came and went throughout the morning without incident. Allie worked the front desk while Kim helped me in the rooms and took care of the animals in back. It was, as Kim described, a pretty routine day.

  I should have known better.

  The last morning appointment belonged to a new client by the name of Sonya Schneider, who wanted me to check her kitten’s eyes. I pulled the chart out of the plastic holder on the wall and opened the door to the cat room. Inside, Sonya sat on the chair in the corner between the fish tank and the examination table.

  I scanned the room for a kitten, expecting to see a Scottish Fold chasing a dust bunny or hiding under the chair, but the room was empty.

  “Good morning, Ms. Schneider. I’m Dr. Nelson.” I reached out my right hand.

  “Please call me Sonya,” she said as she stood to shake hands with me.

  “So you want me to check your kitten’s eyes?” I asked.

  Sonya nodded and reached down the front of her shirt into her bra. Her eyes narrowed and her face twisted as she searched for the precious cargo. Seconds later, a young kitten laid in the palm of her hand. It was a ball of white fur with a few patches of tabby gray and a bright pink nose.

  “His eyes are just starting to open and they don’t look right to me,” she said. She placed him in the palm of my left hand. He immediately buried his face in my fingers and sucked on my pinky.

  “How old is he?”

  “Nine days. He started to open his eyes two days ago, like his littermates. The other kittens have their eyes wide open now, but his aren’t. Do you know what’s wrong?”

  “Not yet, but let me take a look at him.” At nine days, a kitten’s ears are beginning to open just like their eyes. Both o
f this kitten’s ears stood straight up into the air, which is normal. At three to four weeks of age, the ears of Scottish Fold kittens born with the requisite genes will fold over.

  I started the exam by exploring his mouth with my finger. I couldn’t feel any teeth with my finger, just hard gums and a strong sucking sensation. His baby teeth should erupt between two and three weeks of age, which is why I didn’t feel any teeth when the kitten suckled on my finger. I opened his mouth and observed healthy pink tissue covering the entire roof — no cleft palate. Next I put my pinky finger in the back of his throat to get a quick view of his tonsils. I pulled a pediatric stethoscope out of the drawer in the exam table to listen to his heart. He wriggled when the cold bell touched his chest.

  “Lub, dub. Lub, dub,” echoed in my ears. I hung the stethoscope around my neck with my larger one before flipping him on his back to examine his abdomen. The kitten kicked his legs in the air and made mewing motions with his mouth, but no sound came out. I stroked his head, and he relaxed again. His umbilicus had healed well, with no signs of a hernia. I placed one finger on each side of his tummy to feel the organs inside. I could feel soft stool in his colon, which is normal for a nursing kitten. I flipped him back onto his belly and lifted his tail. Sonya was right, this kitten was a boy. Everything looked normal.

  “OK, it’s time for the eyes,” I announced nonchalantly. I took the ophthalmoscope out of the drawer with my right hand and tried to focus it on the kitten in my left. He wiggled every time I tried to open his eyelids.

  “Can I help you?” Sonya asked. I handed her the kitten.

  “Yes, please hold his body still for me, and I’ll take care of the head.” I held the ophthalmoscope in my right hand and parted the kitten’s left eyelids with my other one. He squirmed a bit, then gave up. I focused the beam of light on his left eye socket and peered through the instrument.

  I was shocked. I saw a dark pink, empty hole. There was no cornea, pupil or iris. I frantically refocused the instrument by spinning the dial on its side with my thumb. Where was the eyeball? I examined his right eye with the same result. This kitten was born with a condition called anopthalmia — Latin for a lack of eyeballs. His sockets were empty cavities with a few ocular muscles and glands, but nothing else. This poor, precious little fellow was blind.

  “What do you think?” Sonya asked. Her words jolted me. I slowly removed the ophthalmoscope from my eye, still in shock.

  “Well, I’m afraid it’s bad news, Sonya,” I said, trying to prepare her for the diagnosis.

  She looked at me like someone wanting to know, yet fearing what she’d learn.

  “This kitten was born without eyes.”

  I waited for her to absorb the words. I had scarcely done so myself. The pump from the aquarium buzzed in the background. It was the only sound for 10 seconds.

  “Here, let me show you.” I used my fingers to open the kitten’s eyelids. Sonya squinted through her wire-rimmed glasses to focus on the small area. And then the kitten squirmed free.

  “I knew something was wrong,” Sonya said. She held the kitten on her chest and stroked his soft fur. He was a perfect, beautiful kitten in every way but one. She was slow to continue, “Over the years I’ve seen a lot of birth defects — umbilical hernias, crooked tails and even one cleft palate. But nothing like this.”

  “It’s the first case of anopthalmia for me as well,” I said, trying to speak clinically, thinking it might breach the sadness welling up from deep inside. “I remember my ophthalmology prof showing us a picture as he described this rare condition.” I sighed. “But I never, never thought I would see one — especially in such a beautiful baby.”

  “If he doesn’t have eyes, why do tears run down his face?” she asked, trying to be stoic as well. “Ever since his eyelids opened, his face is always wet. The queen cleans him constantly.”

  “In a normal eye, the eyeball fills the boney socket in the skull. Tears are produced by glands located in the third eyelid, the extra one that dogs and cats have.” I took the kitten from her and pointed to the lower eyelid by the kitten’s nose. “In this area, there’s a little opening called a puncta that drains excess tears out of the eye and into the nose. That’s why your nose runs when you cry.”

  Sonya nodded, urging me to continue. She was regaining her composure faster than I was. “Without an eyeball, the tears flow into the socket, then drain out through the path of least resistance, missing the puncta.”

  “What a shame,” Sonya said, staring at the kitten. “He has such beautiful markings. He would have been a great show cat.” She sighed. “Can you put him down now?”

  “Put him down?” I stammered. “Put him down?” I clutched the kitten even tighter.

  “Well, I can’t sell him like this,” she responded. “Shucks, I can’t even give him away. Nobody’s gonna want a blind kitten. We might as well do it now and get it over with before I get anymore attached to him. He’s a nice kitten.”

  I looked down at the tiny fur ball in my hand, suckling on my finger. He yawned and kicked all four legs in a big stretch, exposing a round belly. His mama took good care of this youngster. His fur felt like a soft baby blanket against my skin.

  “Animals that are blind can still live happy, fulfilled lives,” I said without taking my eyes off the animal. “There is no reason to euthanize him.” I emphasized the word “no.”

  “Look, I feel as bad about this as you do,” she responded. “But when you’re in the breeding business, you have to look at the financial side of things as well as the emotional side.” She reached over the table to pet his back as he rested in my hand. Every once in a while, he would twitch an ear or jerk a paw. “If someone wanted him, I would take care of him until he was weaned, but…”

  “I’ll take him,” I blurted.

  Sonya looked at me. Tension replaced sadness in the room.

  “Really, what are you going to do with him?” she asked. “He would have to be neutered you know…you can’t use him for breeding.”

  “I’m not interested in breeding him. He will be a clinic cat with Genny,” I replied. “I think he’d be the perfect companion for her.”

  “A three-legged cat and a blind cat,” Sonya observed. “That’s quite the assortment of pets.”

  “I also have a parrot with limited vision. Vets always take the hard-luck cases. May I have him?”

  Sonya thought for a moment before sticking out her right hand. “Deal. I’ll raise him until he’s weaned, and then he’s yours.”

  “Actually, I think it would be best if he stayed with the queen until he’s at least 12 weeks old. Kittens go through a fear period around weaning, and I don’t want him to be traumatized by the move.”

  Sonya started to withdraw her hand.

  “But I’ll give you a 20 pound bag of kitten food to help with the cost of feeding him.”

  She smiled, and we shook hands.

  “I’m glad you’re going to adopt him, Dr. Nelson,” she said. “I can’t wait to see how he does.” She took the kitten from my hand, lifted his right front paw to wave and shoved him down her shirt. “See you after Christmas.”

  The clinic was quiet again. Snowflake’s family only stayed a few moments for fear of upsetting him. They brought his favorite blanket for him to rest on.

  Stephanie came prepared for a long visit with a book, a thermos of coffee and two pillows — one for Bianca, and one for the stool. Every time Allie or Kim entered the treatment room, Stephanie told them Bianca would recover much better at home. She felt the other animals in the clinic distressed her dog. Stephanie assured the technicians that she was capable of taking care of Bianca — she had studied first aid in school, after all.

  At 11:30, Allie couldn’t take it any longer. “Stephanie, Dr. Nelson told me that Bianca can go home as soon as she can urinate on her own. I’ll take her outside, and if she goes on her own, you can take her home right away.” Stephanie jumped off the stool, almost spilling her coffee. Allie cradled the in
jured dog in her arms, with as little pressure on her pelvis as possible. She carried her through the lobby, out the front door to the grassy area on the other side of the parking lot. Stephanie followed close behind, giving Allie suggestions about better ways to carry her dog.

  “Go potty, Bianca,” Allie instructed after situating her on the grass. Bianca pulled herself into a sitting position, screamed and collapsed back into the grass. Stephanie gasped, the color draining from her cheeks.

  “It’s OK, Bianca.” Allie knelt beside the dog and slipped her left arm under her body to support her. “I’ll help you.” She placed her right hand around the lower part of Bianca’s abdomen and squeezed. A stream of urine flowed onto the grass. One minute later, the job was done. Bianca felt much better with an empty bladder.

  Allie carried her into the clinic with a triumphant look on her face. Stephanie followed without a word. Allie settled Bianca back into her bed with the special pillow Stephanie brought tucked under her head. Bianca yawned once and drifted off to sleep.

  “Visiting hours are over,” Allie the General ordered. She handed Stephanie her purse and thermos. “You can leave the pillow on the stool while you get lunch. See you at 3.”

  From my office, I watched Allie escort Stephanie briskly to the front door. When Allie returned, she marched straight to the treatment room. She drew a blue surgical cap out of her pocket, flipped her hair forward and pulled it over her head. After tying a mask over her face, she disappeared into the operating room.

  Kim stayed in the treatment room, setting up equipment and getting out supplies. I knew from experience that my first patient would be ready in 15 minutes. I went to the pharmacy phone and dialed Steve’s number.

  “Hello, Steve Nelson speaking,” he answered.

  “Hi, Sweets.”

  “Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” he said. “I was going to call but thought you’d be in surgery.”