Meow?
It’s always smart to be prudent with strong, overarching statements as, more often than not, they come back to haunt you. Don’t you find?
I have two Mexican cats: Mezcalito and Pao. Mezcal was the result of missing my aged Canadian cat so much that I, with very little thought, offered to take in a three-month old kitten found in a drainpipe. One year of bloodied legs and destroyed home furnishings later, I took into tiny, feisty little Pao to see if some company would quell Mezcal’s vaguely homicidal play patterns. She did, despite being half his size and less than half his bodyweight. They’re now the best of friends.
But I never actually wanted two cats. And, faced with the lovely amicable affectionate purr-happy little Pao and the still mildly destructive “don’t touch me” Mezcalito, I remarked a few weeks ago to my roommate that I wished I had gotten Pao first and therefore never a Mezcal.
Wednesday morning, six days ago, Mezcal threw up on the carpet. I shrugged it off: cats throw up, it’s in their job description.
Wednesday afternoon, my roommate and I returned from work to find the floor absolutely covered in light green liquid and a very lethargic, very sad looking cat.
Thursday morning, I took the still vomiting and almost limp cat to the vet. The vet took some blood and gave him something for the vomiting.
Friday morning, my roommate took the still vomiting and near catatonic feline and checked him into the hospital. He was so dehydrated that, if you pinched the skin on the back of his neck, it stayed there, peaked. He hadn’t eaten since Tuesday, by my math. He didn’t fight being put in the cage.
A very long weekend followed.
It’s now Tuesday and he’s still in the hospital. In the wee hours of this morning, after days of (expensive) tests that couldn’t prove one way or the other what was wrong with the (still vomiting) cat, the vet sliced him open and found his stomach and intestines jam-packed with white sewing thread. Eight incisions later and he’s in recovery, doped up to the whiskers with antibiotics to stave off infection but officially thread free. His digestive system, previously paralyzed, appears to be moving again. There is hope, although his situation is critical. Tomorrow they will try to give him some food and see what happens.
It’s been a week, let me tell you. There have been tears.
And how long into this ordeal do you think it took me to regret ever saying that I wished I had never adopted this cat?
That would be the moment, on the first day at the vet, when the doctor told me that his symptoms could be those of either feline AIDS or feline leukemia – both fatal diseases that usually result in the cat being put down.
It was… unthinkable. The idea of him sleeping in that cage over there, not on my bed here, was unthinkable. Watching Pao look for him and cry was unthinkable. The slow realization, pre-surgery, that I could be witnessing Mezcal’s last days alive was unthinkable.
I wrote a post, a long time ago, about how I struggled with the temptation to romanticize Mexico’s social problems because they, in turn, create a culture where family and faith is more important than having new curtains. In some twisted, overly romantic way, I implied that fear puts things into perspective. (This argument would be subsequently contradicted by my last post, about fighting to the death for every crumb of bread…)
I can’t say whether it’s true, but certainly I will be more than a little relieved if and, hopefully, when Pao is reunited with her hulking, sulking, wonderful brother.
At which point I will begin making payments to the vet bill. Oy. Cat owes me BIG TIME. He'd better live forever now.
I have two Mexican cats: Mezcalito and Pao. Mezcal was the result of missing my aged Canadian cat so much that I, with very little thought, offered to take in a three-month old kitten found in a drainpipe. One year of bloodied legs and destroyed home furnishings later, I took into tiny, feisty little Pao to see if some company would quell Mezcal’s vaguely homicidal play patterns. She did, despite being half his size and less than half his bodyweight. They’re now the best of friends.
But I never actually wanted two cats. And, faced with the lovely amicable affectionate purr-happy little Pao and the still mildly destructive “don’t touch me” Mezcalito, I remarked a few weeks ago to my roommate that I wished I had gotten Pao first and therefore never a Mezcal.
Wednesday morning, six days ago, Mezcal threw up on the carpet. I shrugged it off: cats throw up, it’s in their job description.
Wednesday afternoon, my roommate and I returned from work to find the floor absolutely covered in light green liquid and a very lethargic, very sad looking cat.
Thursday morning, I took the still vomiting and almost limp cat to the vet. The vet took some blood and gave him something for the vomiting.
Friday morning, my roommate took the still vomiting and near catatonic feline and checked him into the hospital. He was so dehydrated that, if you pinched the skin on the back of his neck, it stayed there, peaked. He hadn’t eaten since Tuesday, by my math. He didn’t fight being put in the cage.
A very long weekend followed.
It’s now Tuesday and he’s still in the hospital. In the wee hours of this morning, after days of (expensive) tests that couldn’t prove one way or the other what was wrong with the (still vomiting) cat, the vet sliced him open and found his stomach and intestines jam-packed with white sewing thread. Eight incisions later and he’s in recovery, doped up to the whiskers with antibiotics to stave off infection but officially thread free. His digestive system, previously paralyzed, appears to be moving again. There is hope, although his situation is critical. Tomorrow they will try to give him some food and see what happens.
It’s been a week, let me tell you. There have been tears.
And how long into this ordeal do you think it took me to regret ever saying that I wished I had never adopted this cat?
That would be the moment, on the first day at the vet, when the doctor told me that his symptoms could be those of either feline AIDS or feline leukemia – both fatal diseases that usually result in the cat being put down.
It was… unthinkable. The idea of him sleeping in that cage over there, not on my bed here, was unthinkable. Watching Pao look for him and cry was unthinkable. The slow realization, pre-surgery, that I could be witnessing Mezcal’s last days alive was unthinkable.
I wrote a post, a long time ago, about how I struggled with the temptation to romanticize Mexico’s social problems because they, in turn, create a culture where family and faith is more important than having new curtains. In some twisted, overly romantic way, I implied that fear puts things into perspective. (This argument would be subsequently contradicted by my last post, about fighting to the death for every crumb of bread…)
I can’t say whether it’s true, but certainly I will be more than a little relieved if and, hopefully, when Pao is reunited with her hulking, sulking, wonderful brother.
At which point I will begin making payments to the vet bill. Oy. Cat owes me BIG TIME. He'd better live forever now.
__________________________________________________________An hour ago, Wednesday, the day after this post, Mezcal suffered a heart attack and died.
Goodbye my Mezcalito. Te quiero mucho.
Comments
I adore cats and I'm stupidly soft in the head about my own. You've broken my heart just reading about this, so heaven knows how you must be feeling now. Don't be hard on yourself though - think of the life a cat in a drainpipe was likely to have had. You did a good thing, tiger. A good thing.
But, aw...
T
I think the best thing you can do right now though is to pet your other cat. It will probably help.
Take care,
Nancy
Best wishes to you.
I've just come of from Lord Bargain's blog and so know from your cmments that Mezcalito didn't make it. I hope things are feeling a little better but I know thats not always the case with these little bundles of fur who come into our lives.