Cats | stuartsandersblog

A PET LOVE STORY?

Herewith a stray cat tale, as related by a friend:

I arrive from work one evening and see an unfamiliar cat staring up at me from beneath the kitchen table.

“Hey, who’s the cat?” I ask.
My wife, Lisa, responds: “That’s Lexi,” she says. “She used to be a stray.”
“And now?” I ask.
“Now she lives here, temporarily” says Lisa.

I’m not shocked. We’ve had visitors before. Lisa volunteers at the local animal shelter and, at least once a year, an animal pulls her heartstrings strongly enough to cross our threshold. Typically, we pay to have the cat or dog neutered, if necessary, and to have minor medical problems addressed. A clean bill of health is usually enough to help an animal get permanently adopted by a family.

“Her teeth are good,” says Lisa.
“That’s great,” I say.
“And she’s only two or three years old,” says Lisa.
“Okay,” I say, suspicious. “So what’s her problem?”
“Who says there’s a problem?” says Lisa.

I exchange looks with Lisa for a moment, long enough to allow each of us to recall the past several guests: the beagle with dry skin; the tabby with food allergies; and, the spaniel with only one ear.

“Well, Lexi has a bad leg,” admits Lisa.
I look at the cat, still staring up at me with green eyes. She blinks once, slowly.
“How bad?” I ask.
“She got hit by a car, a Lexus,” says Lisa. “That’s how she got her name.”
“Oh,” I say, “sorry to hear that.”
“Anyway, someone left her at the shelter with a note about the injury,” says Lisa. “We just have to get her leg fixed up.”

Lexi continues to gaze at me. She seems to think I have some say in her fate. But I know better. To refuse my kind-hearted wife would be as effective as refusing beach entry to a tsunami.

“I’m taking her to the vet first thing tomorrow before I leave for the yoga retreat,” says Lisa. “Is it okay if I give your cellphone number in case they need to call?”
“Sure,” I say. “What will they be doing to her leg?”
“I don’t know,” says Lisa. “Maybe a splint or something. But it shouldn’t be too bad.”

We spend the rest of the evening having dinner and reading, me from a computer, Lisa from a magazine. Lexi emerges from beneath the table several times, to eat some dry cat food and to drink some water. Her front left leg is crooked and causes her to limp, but she appears functional. At one point, she sidles over and rubs her tail against my leg. She’s pretty, with medium length orange fur. I’m pleased to do a good deed for her; she seems appreciative in some intuitive way.

I don’t think much about Lexi the next morning when I hug Lisa good-bye and wish her an enjoyable retreat. My mind’s more focused on work. I have an important meeting scheduled for the morning with out-of-state investors. If it goes well, it could continue all day.
“I’ll see you tonight,” she says. “No phone contact up on the mountain.”
“Wow, that’s serious,” I say, with a smile. “I’ll handle the home front.”
“And you’ll probably hear about Lexi,” says Lisa. “It might be a couple hundred dollars.”
“No problem,” I say. “It’s a good cause.”

Several hours later, during the first recess from the meeting, I check my cell-phone. The caller i.d. indicates the veterinarian has left a message:
“We’re calling about Lexi,” says a kind female voice. “She’s stabilized now. We think we can save the leg.”
“Hunh?” I think. “This sounds expensive.” But I don’t have time to call back before returning to the conference room.
Two hours later, I have another message: “She’s rejecting the screws. We may have to amputate.”
Alarmed, I try to call back. The answering machine says: “We are closed for lunch. Please call again after 1 p.m. You may leave a message.”
“Um, this is Mr. Smith,” I say. “Lexi is a stray cat, I mean, she’s our cat, but she’s not REALLY ours, but she’s having her leg….”
A beep ends the message before I can ask for more details and a cost estimate. My assistant waves for me to return to the meeting. Two hours later, when we break again, I have another message from the animal hospital:
“The amputation went well; we’ll attempt a reconstruction this afternoon. If she lives through the night, there’s a chance she’ll survive. The amputation will be around $3,000 when all the medication is taken into account. The mold for the reconstruction is about $1,200, so long as there are no complications. Room and board during recovery will be additional.”

“What’s wrong?” asks my business partner, Alan.
“It’s unbelievable,” I say, the blood draining from my face. We’re standing outside the conference room where the negotiations are proceeding nicely.
“What is? Is your family okay?” says Alan.
“Yes,” I say, “except for our financial well-being. The bill will be around $5,000 for Lexi’s leg.”
“Who’s Lexi?” Alan asks.
“A cat,” I say.
“Wow,” says Alan. “You must really love your pet.”
“She’s not our pet,” I say, peevish.
Alan looks confused.
“She’s a stray,” I add.
“You’re spending $5,000 for a stray cat’s leg?” says Alan. “That’d be $20,000 for all four!” Alan laughs.
“That’s not helpful,” I say, miserable.

The vet leaves a message on our home phone regarding Lexi’s status. “We’re pulling out all the stops with painkillers and antibiotics. It’ll take a week or two to know if she’ll survive. I’d give it fifty-fifty. We didn’t realize she had a little pneumonia until we got inside. Once she’s strong enough her other leg may need replacement, too,” she concludes. When Lisa calls from her car that evening I relate what I know about Lexi.
“We’ll have to pray for her,” she says.
“Oh, I’m praying,” I say. “I’m definitely praying.”

IMPY’S LAST ADVENTURE

When I was nine we had a cat named Impy. He was a formidable Maine Coon cat with a bushy tail trailing a sturdy, striped body. Impy lived up to his name, lording over the neighborhood like a lion and terrorizing birds and mice. Often, he stayed out all night. He must have had some tender moments at home; why else did we keep him? But all I recall of life with Impy was that my arms were crisscrossed with scratches.

One particularly cold evening, Impy ignored our calls and evaded our flashlight search. The temperatures dropped to the teens and still, he did not surrender his nocturnal patrol. The next morning, we were concerned but not quite worried. Impy, we were confident, was a sturdy and resourceful fellow.

“He’s probably curled up next to someone’s furnace vent,” said my mother.

“I bet he crawled into a squirrel’s nest,” I said.

“Yes, after he evicted the squirrels,” said my older brother, Barry.

We all laughed. The three of us agreed to walk around the house for a few minutes before breakfast to see if we could locate our mischievous pet. I went around the front of our own house while my mother and brother searched around the neighbors’. Almost immediately, I saw Impy sprawled in the front garden.

“He’s sleeping!” I yelled, delighted to have been the one to find him, like the winner of a scavenger hunt. I realized almost immediately, however, that Impy’s evident stiffness indicated a condition more permanent than sleep.

My mother and brother arrived to find me staring at the frozen corpse. I recall more horror than grief. Impy presented a problem that did not have an apparent solution.

“Should we try mouth-to-mouth?” asked Barry.

We looked at each other. No one moved forward. Eventually, we resolved to bury Impy where several previous pets were interred, behind the garage. It became immediately apparent, however, that the frozen ground was impossible to dig.

“I have an idea,” said Barry. “Burial at sea would be dignified.”

“Which sea did you have in mind?” asked my mother. “We’re hours from the ocean.”

“We could drop him off a bridge into a river,” said Barry. “That’d be almost the same thing.”

“Yes. We can wrap him in his blanket,” I suggested, thinking of a pad on which Impy sometimes slept.

“Good idea,” said my mother.

We gathered Impy’s body up into his blanket-cum-shroud and piled into the car. As the youngest and smallest member of this expedition, I sat in the backseat beside my pet’s stiff body. I recall feeling sad for Impy but also a sense of excitement about our mission. Life with Impy, after all, had been a mixed blessing. And there was something almost spiritual about his restless, impetuous body being at peace. Already, we were thinking about how our next pet might be better.

“It should be female,” said my mother.

Barry added: “Perhaps a dog or cat that will curl up in your lap or in front of the fire.”

I looked down at the back of my hands and sighed: “I won’t miss getting scratched.”

We were silent as we arrived at the Fairmount Park Bridge over the Schuylkill River. Barry carried the bundle to the middle of the span as my mother and I followed a step behind. We were a self-conscious triumvirate, summoning what felt like proper solemnity to the situation.

“This feels sort of Mayan,” I observed, thinking of rituals we had just talked about in school.

“I guess,” said Barry.

“Do you want to say something?” asked my mother, looking at me.

“I can’t really think of anything,” I said.

“Well,” said Barry, taking on a grave tone. “Impy, we hope that you are in a peaceful place, um, with lots of good food, um, and plenty of mice to catch.”

I looked up to make sure he was finished.

“Amen,” I said.

“Amen,” said my mother.

With that, after looking both ways to be sure no one was watching, Barry flung the deceased into the air. We all raced to the railing to watch the anticipated splash. To our horror, we realized that the river was completely frozen. Our search for dignity ended with a thud.

We were speechless for most of the ride home.

“It will melt, eventually,” Barry finally offered.