Coated With Fur: A Blind Cat's Love

by Kristen Nelson

  “We’re about to start. Between morning appointments and the hospitalized campers, we’re running a little late. I’m really tired, which probably doesn’t help.”

  “Has Allie given you ‘the look’?”

  “Not yet,” I laughed.

  “Then you must not be that slow.” When he finished laughing, I decided it was time to tell him about the kitten. Before I could say anything he asked, “How is Snowflake?”

  “About the same.”

  “Any interesting cases this morning?”

  “Well, I examined an adorable, 9-day-old kitten.” I took a deep breath. “He is so cute, a white fluffy fur ball with patches of gray tabby. He’s a really great kitten.” I paused. “Unfortunately, he was born without eyeballs.”

  “No eyeballs,” Steve repeated. “Wow. Really.” He paused. “How does that happen?”

  “If I remember right, there’s a developmental phase when the optic discs pinch off from the neural tube and eventually form eyes. Something went wrong for this kitten. He’s got sockets and eyelids, but no eyeballs.”

  “Will he be OK? I mean, will he be able to get around?”

  “He’ll be fine. When an animal loses one of its senses, the others become stronger. This kitten will learn to see with his ears, nose and whiskers.” I took another deep breath. “They don’t mourn the loss of vision like people do.”

  “What did the owner say when you told them the kitten was blind?”

  “She requested euthanasia,” I said. “But I couldn’t do it, Sweets; I just couldn’t do it. He was born on my birthday, and other than the eye problem, he’s healthy…and he is so cute.” I paused, but not long enough to give him a chance to interject. “So I told her we would adopt him. He’s going to be a clinic cat with Genny. She needs a buddy, right?”

  “Whoa, what happened to our agreement?” he asked. “Remember, you agreed to discuss any new additions before taking them in.”

  “I know. But this was a special case.”

  “Aren’t they all?” Steve laughed, sort of. “Oh, Krissy, you have such a big heart for animals. But really, honey, I’m still tired from bottle feeding Genny.”

  “I’ve arranged for him to stay with his mother until he is at least 12 weeks old. No bottle feedings. He’ll be eating fine on his own by the time we adopt him.”

  “A blind cat,” Steve repeated. “I guess I should have expected this when we got married. A blind cat.” I could picture him trying to comprehend what had just happened.

  “You’re the best, Sweets!” Allie walked into the pharmacy, pointed at her Star Trek watch and walked out. Victory in hand, I said to Steve, “I’d better go scrub for surgery. Allie just pointed at her watch. Bye, Sweets, thanks again for letting me adopt the kitten.”

  I could hear Steve laughing again, sort of, as he hung up the phone.

  Chapter 6

  Exhaustion

  After a long afternoon of appointments, peace settled once again on the hospital. All of the clients and pets were gone except for our hospitalized patients. Stephanie returned promptly at 3. She sat quietly on her stool, petting Bianca and even thanked Allie for her great nursing care as she left. Since Kim had the early shift, she left at 4, eager to see her own pets.

  Allie scurried about the clinic, cleaning up our day’s mess. She disinfected tabletops, mopped the floors and took out the garbage. I finished my callbacks, then took Goliath out for a break. He hopped along on three legs while I held a towel sling around his abdomen to make sure he didn’t slip. He knew the way to the grass without any help from me. He took me straight to his favorite evergreen tree, the one with the crooked trunk in front of the boarding kennel.

  “Good boy, Goliath,” I praised him. “Now let’s get dinner.”

  Goliath refused to move. He stood with his nose pointed to the east, taking in the cool autumn air. I let him sniff for a moment while I rubbed his back. The incision over his left hip looked good, just a little swollen. I moved my hands up to his head and massaged both ears. His face relaxed into a happy grin, and his nub of a tail wiggled back and forth.

  “OK, time to go,” I announced. Again he refused to move. “What are you smelling?” I sniffed the air several times. The strong scent of pine filled my nostrils, but then I recognized the faint smell of grilled hamburgers. I laughed and patted his head. “Sorry, buddy, but hamburgers aren’t on the hospital menu.” Goliath took one last whiff, then followed me back to the clinic.

  When we entered the treatment room, Allie stood with her arms inside the incubator. Goliath rubbed his head against her leg as we walked by, almost knocking her over. Allie ignored his friendly gesture, keeping her eyes on her patient.

  “Time to go, buddy,” Allie told Snowflake. He lifted his head, winked his eyes and purred. Allie peeled back the towels as she stroked his head. Under his rear end, a large orange spot of urine stained the towels. She sponged his rear with a damp cloth, rinsed it and dabbed him again. “I can’t wait until you’re strong enough to use a litter box, Snowflake. I bet you feel the same way.”

  She slid her arms under his body to transfer him to the carrier. Suddenly, he started to retch. After three heaves, a large volume of brown liquid shot from his mouth onto the towels.

  “Don’t vomit the tube,” Allie told him. She waited with fingers crossed, hoping for the best. Snowflake froze in place, liquid dripping from his lips onto the towel beneath. Ten seconds later, he licked his lips and began to purr again. Allie wiped his face with a paper towel, then rinsed his mouth with two milliliters of water.

  “Is he ready to go?” I asked, walking back into the treatment room after getting Goliath settled on a quilt.

  “Almost,” Allie responded. “He vomited most of his last meal.”

  “Bummer,” I replied. I reached inside the incubator, opened his mouth and inspected the feeding tube. It was still in position down his esophagus. Snowflake licked his lips and let out a soft meow. I stroked his head. “What was his last temperature?”

  “Still low,” Allie responded. “99.8F while in the incubator.” Allie slid her hands under Snowflake and transferred him to the waiting carrier. Before closing the door, she leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. “See you tomorrow, little buddy.”

  Allie waited in the lobby with Snowflake while the heater warmed up my car. When it was nice and toasty, she used the seatbelt to secure the carrier into the passenger seat. She patted the carrier once, closed the door and disappeared into the clinic.

  I backed the car out of the parking spot and turned onto the Highway 13 frontage road. At County Road 11, I turned south more out of habit than conscious thought. I had driven this route so many times in the past year, at all times of the day and night. The car seemed to know where to go on its own. As I drove down the street, brown leaves tumbled across the road and the traffic lights swayed over the intersections, but I barely noticed. I was thinking about Snowflake.

  I already had him on every possible medication to reduce nausea and prevent vomiting. The only option left was to reduce the size of his meals. That meant feeding him more frequently through the night to satisfy his caloric needs. Getting up every two hours was bad enough, but every hour…my head hurt just thinking about it.

  At the corner of McAndrews Street and Echo Park Lane, I turned into a back entrance of the Berkshire Townhomes. Steve and I lived on a cul-de-sac on the east side of the development. Large, two-story buildings lined the curved streets. Their wooden facades and shingle roofs gave the community a nice homey feeling. Fake black shutters hung on either side of each window. They contrasted nicely with the gray buildings and white trim. It was a comfortable, family-oriented community.

  I pulled my car into our single-stall garage and quickly unloaded Snowflake. Steve’s car sat outside on the opposite side of the street. Since my car was newer, I got the garage. The temperature had dropped 10 degrees since my outing with Goliath.

  I wrapped another towel around Snowflake’s carrier for
the walk from our detached garage to the front door. As I hustled up the walkway, I saw Fang in the window. He turned his head toward me, then bolted off the window sill, sending the blinds crashing into the window.

  “Hi, Steve; we’re home,” I called out as I walked in carrying Snowflake. Steve stood at the stove, spatula in one hand. Water boiled in a pot on the back burner, sending steam into the air. Tomato sauce simmered in another pan on the front burner.

  “We’ve been waiting for you,” Steve said. “Did you notice Fang in the window?” I nodded as I flipped off my shoes on the small, uncarpeted area by the front door. “He’s been looking for you for the last 30 minutes.”

  “Sorry I’m late. It took Allie and me longer than I expected to clean up the clinic and treat the animals.”

  I placed Snowflake’s carrier on the hallway floor while I prepared the half-bathroom off the kitchen. Since Snowflake was still too weak to use a litter box, I cut the elastic out of a diaper and placed it on the bottom on the bed. Next I grabbed the coat hanger from the towel bar and hung a bag of fluids with “Snowflake” written across the front in black marker. The only thing left to do was fill the hot water bottles.

  While I waited for the water from the faucet to warm, Fang crept under the kitchen table, along the hall closet until he reached the carrier. He knew from last night to leave Snowflake alone but couldn’t resist a chance to smell another cat. He crouched behind the carrier, his tail flat on the floor. He pawed at the towels covering the carrier to get a better look at Snowflake. When that didn’t work, he jumped on top of the carrier, landing with a dull thud.

  “Fang,” I scolded. “Get off.” Fang looked up at me and split for the safety of the living room. He jumped onto an end table where he could still observe my actions.

  “Steve, will you keep an eye on Fang when I get Snowflake out of the carrier?”

  Steve put down the spatula, walked into the living room and picked up Fang.

  I folded back the blanket, then loosened the screws on the carrier and removed the door and top in one piece. Snowflake lifted his head, looked at me and meowed once.

  “Hey, big boy, are you ready for another night together?” I cooed. He closed his eyes and purred. I transferred him to the bed, covered him with a new towel and placed the water bottles, one against his abdomen, the other against his back. I placed one more towel over everything and closed the door. Snowflake needed to rest before his next treatment.

  “How’s he doing?” Steve asked as plopped Fang on the loveseat.

  “About the same. I’m really worried about him.”

  Steve nodded and headed back into the kitchen. He filled two plates with noodles, then covered them with tomato sauce. I sat down on a kitchen chair, placed my elbows on the table and rubbed my forehead with my fingers. Steve put his hand on my shoulder.

  “You’re doing everything possible for him. Now it’s up to Snowflake,” he said with sympathy. “You can’t save them all, remember?”

  “I know.” I took my elbows off the table. “But I really want to save this one.”

  Steve laughed and took the seat beside me. He placed a napkin on his lap, then handed one to me. We ate in silence for a few minutes before Fang reappeared in the kitchen. He walked back and forth under the table, rubbing against our legs. Steve and I smiled at each other because we knew what was coming next.

  Right on cue, Fang jumped into Steve’s lap. He rubbed his chin against Steve’s arm and purred. He peeked at the plate of food sitting five inches from him. When nothing happened, he laid his chin on the table. Now his mouth was only two inches from the plate. He continued to purr loudly, acting like he could care less about the spaghetti. When Steve put down his fork to get a drink of water, Fang lunged forward, his tongue sticking out of his mouth. Steve cut him off with his left hand. I giggled.

  “Good try, little buddy,” Steve said when he finally stopped laughing.

  “You’ve got to give him an ‘A’ for persistence,” I said.

  “And sneakiness,” Steve added. “Acting like he loves me just to get my food. You’ve got to hand it to him. He’s a smart cat.”

  When we finished eating, I warmed a small amount of food for Snowflake. The brown gruel looked unappetizing and smelled even worse. Fang, on the other hand, thought it smelled great. He sat on the counter, watching my every move and begging for a taste. Too bad he was on a strict diet, a quarter of a cup of food twice a day. He followed me to the bathroom, meowing all the way. I opened the door and slid inside without him.

  “Snowflake, time for some dinner.” Snowflake was in the exact position I had left him. “Snowflake,” I repeated. “Are you OK?” I touched his head with my finger. His eyes remained closed, and his ears didn’t move. My hands began to shake. I pulled back the towel and placed my fingers on his chest over the heart. Nothing. I felt nothing. I repositioned and felt again. This time I felt a slow, steady beat under my fingers. Snowflake breathed deeply and opened his eyes.

  “Wow, you really scared me,” I told my patient. I removed the plug from his feeding tube, flushed it with warm water and fed him a small amount of food. Halfway through the feeding, Snowflake started to drool. Drooling is a sign of nausea in dogs and cats. I feared he would vomit again. I rolled him onto his abdomen and placed a rolled-up towel under his head. He was so weak that he slowly slid onto his side. I rolled him back into position and placed a water bottle on each side to hold him upright. I sat on the closed toilet, massaging his back and sides with a light touch. Five minutes later, the drooling stopped.

  “See you in an hour,” I whispered and opened the door. Fang waited for me in the hallway, staring at me with his remarkable green eyes. He jumped up to greet me, hoping to lick my fingers. Instead, I walked to the kitchen sink to wash my hands. Even though Snowflake’s lab work didn’t indicate an infectious problem, I wasn’t taking chances.

  After the 10 o’clock feeding, Steve and I headed upstairs to bed. He set the alarm on his side of the bed for 5 a.m. On the opposite side of the bed, I set mine for 11 p.m. Fang stayed downstairs instead of joining us in bed. He didn’t like having houseguests, especially other cats. He loved his status as the ruler of our little townhouse. He sauntered from the main floor to the upstairs, rubbing his face on door jambs, furniture and even us. This was his territory, and the welcome sign was not out.

  At 11 o’clock, the windup alarm clock buzzed loudly. I bought the clock in New York City during my internship. Since our neighborhood experienced frequent power outages, I needed an alarm clock that was off the grid. Interns at the Animal Medical Center were not allowed to be late for any reason. I grabbed the round clock, pulled it under the covers to muffle the noise and turned it off. How could an hour have passed so quickly? I slid out of bed, trying not to let any cold air under the covers and headed downstairs. Ten minutes later, I returned to bed with the alarm clock set for midnight.

  “Buzz, buzz,” the alarm went off again. I reached for the clock with my right hand. It sailed off the nightstand onto the floor. I rolled out of bed, frantic to turn it off before it woke Steve. “Buzz, buzz, buzz,” it continued. I dropped to my knees and felt around the nightstand with my hands. It buzzed again. Where is it! I kept feeling the carpeting with no luck. “Buzz, buzz, buzz.”

  “What’s the problem, Kris?” Steve asked.

  “Sorry to wake you, Sweets. I knocked my alarm clock off the table, and I can’t find it. Would you mind if I turn on a light?” Always supportive, Steve groaned and covered his eyes with his arm. I flicked on the table lamp and spotted the clock lodged between the wall and the nightstand. I reached behind and turned it off just as it started to buzz again. Poor Steve. He had an important meeting the next day with a client.

  I took my pillow, the clock and a blanket downstairs. Camp living room floor, here I come.

  When I entered the bathroom for the 2 a.m. feeding, Snowflake was flat on his side with the water bottles wedged against the sides of the cat bed. They weren’
t touching him. The towel I used to cover him was crumpled on the floor. Dark brown feces covered everything — his body, the bed, the floor and even the wall behind him. The stench sent a wave of nausea through me. I covered my nose with the sleeve of my robe and breathed deeply. The pleasant scent of fabric softener was a welcome relief. I reached into the first aid kit for a pair of disposable gloves. Yuck!

  Twenty minutes later, Snowflake rested in a clean bed with a stomach full of food plus an additional drug for diarrhea. The filthy towels sat by the front door with the garbage in not one, but two plastic garbage bags. Unfortunately, the smell of feces still hung in the air. I opened the kitchen window for fresh air. A gust of wind rushed into the room, sending the curtains flying. Rain rushed in next, wetting the windowsill and spilling down the wall to the sink. I closed the window in one swift motion and stared out the window.

  Minnesota is known for violent summer thunderstorms that sometimes produce tornadoes. But fall storms with tornadoes were pretty rare. I looked through the window to check on Steve’s car. Water swept down the street in sheets in front of our building. The oak trees whipped back and forth, acorns flying in all directions. Even the tall evergreens that protected Steve’s car swayed wildly. I stood at the window, mesmerized by the storm for two minutes. One of my favorite things was to lie in bed listening to the rain hit the roof during a storm. A flash of lightning accompanied by a loud boom brought my thoughts back to the kitchen and my sacred responsibility. Snowflake would need another feeding in only 30 minutes. Bummer!

  At the 4 a.m. feeding, I wasn’t sure who was in worse shape…Snowflake or me. My head throbbed. The pain intensified each time I opened my eyes. Waves of nausea washed over me. I felt like I was on the last shift of night doc duty at the Animal Medical Center. I set the alarm for 5 and collapsed on the floor.

  Light streamed through cracks in the vertical blinds, making lines across the floor as I awoke. I luxuriated in the warmth of the blanket, not feeling the hard floor beneath. It felt so good to just lie there. Fang noticed I was awake and jumped on my chest for attention. He was not a small cat, and his weight knocked the air right out of me. I turned over to breathe and checked the clock by my head. The big hand pointed to 11 while the little one pointed to 7. I missed two feedings! I threw off the blanket and sprinted to the bathroom. A legal pad with my name at the top leaned against the door. The note read, “I did Snowflake’s 5 and 6 a.m. treatments so you could sleep. Love, Steve.”