Tag: cats

It’s been two weeks since we brought our cat home from the vet after her back leg was amputated.

The stitches are out and the cone is off, but she has to stay in the kennel for another two weeks because of her broken front leg. I’ve also used up all of the medications that she was prescribed, with the one exception being the pain killer. I’ve gotten pretty good at shoving pills down the cat’s throat without her spitting them out, but it’s a relief to not have to do that anymore.

I moved the cat out of the laundry room and into the living room, because she seemed like she was getting lonely. The two-year-old is being more respectful of the kennel than I had expected, which was a pleasant surprise, and I’ve been recruiting the older children to sit with the cat.

One of the vets at the emergency clinic had recommended that we use newspaper pellets litter, but when I looked it up, I said “no way” to the price — I’m too stingy. So, the kids and I put a bunch of newspaper through a shredder, and lo and behold, I like it better than cat litter. It doesn’t scatter everywhere, and clean up is as easy as sending a kid outside to dump the whole thing in the compost pile once a day. Who knew? I’m totally converting, lol.

I’m not feeling terribly secure about the upcoming dark months. Not in regards to the cat, but rather more of a “by the pricking of my thumb,” sort of way. What happened to her feels like a portend.

I am very grateful that the cat is healing so well.

I didn’t grow up in a supportive environment, and one of the things that I caught a lot of flak over was cats. Back then, pets were still only pets, and no one understood why I was so driven to befriend and care for cats. I’ve been called a “crazy cat lady” since childhood.

The other day, our now-three-legged cat accidentally made a mess on herself, since balancing is hard with her broken front leg (at the moment, she only has two usable limbs), so I took off her cone to let her go to work grooming while I gently dabbed at the smearing around her stitches with a warm washcloth. And, unbidden, one of those negative voices sprang into my head with, “Why would you spend that much money on a cat just to clean shit off of it?”

I’m not a “pet parent,” and this animal isn’t my “fur baby.” Heaven knows I’ve given birth to enough babies to quench any desires in that area, so that’s not my motivation at all.

Cats are my spirit animal — my familiars — and I’m bound by a geas.

It’s the sort of thing where I go outside and cats appear. My husband and I have had strange cats follow us around the neighborhood on our evening walks — alongside our own cats. They’re always nearby.

I can’t turn my back on a cat that dragged herself through all that pain to ask for our help, even when that means carefully cleaning up poop with a washcloth as she recovers. Besides, I’m not so self-absorbed that I resent every second spent caring for another creature; I quite enjoy being the nurturer.

I’m grateful to be married to someone who understands.