“Is this was one of yours?” asked the across-the-street guy. “He was over there by the dumpster dragging around. He’s been hurt, and I figured you’d want to know about it.”
The kitten was, in fact, pretty beaten up. He looked like shit. He was bleeding from his lower lip and nose, and had a divot taken out of the fur on his forehead through the fur and down to the skin.
“He’s got a broken leg,” said the across-the-street-guy. He put the kitten down, and it toppled over, then struggled to its feet and began hobbling, its front left leg floppy as a rag. It tipped over again, and again struggled to its feet.
"He'd made it out to the middle of the street when I saw him," said the across-the-street guy. "I snagged him before someone ran over him and brought him over."
I reached down and picked the kitten up. He purred and snuggled against my palm and fingers, his leg dangling. I did a quick exam, and didn’t feel any bones poking through, but something was seriously wrong. Maybe a deep break, a dislocation — something.
“Nope,” I said, “not one of ours. But we’ve had a couple of females that have had kittens in the last couple of months. Maybe they’ll take him in."
I took the kitten to the back yard where the two females and a few of their kittens were lounging. Their kittens were more "teenagers" and on the verge of striking out on their own, but the females still had milk, if they were interested in adopting. I put the broken kitten down between the females, and he flopped and hobbled, and struggled and finally just sat there. The two females came over to him and sniffed him, front to back, trying to decide whether they were offended or not. They finally settled in on indifference.
I had to leave. I had other stuff to do. The Beneficiary was scheduled to be coming home within the hour, and she usually feeds the cats when she gets there, so I called her.
“You’ve got a new cat out back with the others,” I told her. "He's broken." I explained what was going on. She has a lot better handle on cat physiology than I do. She said she’d take a look at him.
I told her if he was suffering or was unrecoverable to just keep him as comfortable as possible for a bit, and I'd take care of it when I got home in a couple of hours. I'm MUCH quicker and a LOT more painless than a vet when an animal needs to be put down. The fact is, I'm good at it, and the animal's suffering is near-zero when I'm the one on the trigger.
Later that evening, when I got in, I’d pretty much forgotten the whole thing. The Beneficiary reminded me, though…
“That kitten is healthy except for his leg,” she said, “and when I fed the rest of the cats, he hobbled right on over and ate with the crew. He doesn't need milk or anything. Everyone kind of hissed and growled at him a little bit, but he ignored them and ate till I thought he’d puke. Then he wobbled over and leaned against me, completely worn out, until I picked him up.” She paused for a minute. “His leg is really screwed up.” Another pause. “I’m taking him to the vet tomorrow.”
"No," I said, "don't do that. I'll handle it." I sighed and stood to go get the rifle.
"I'm taking him to the vet," she said, "to see if he can fix him, not put him down. It's a good cat."
She knows as well as I do that, while we aren't exactly poverty-striken, the one thing we cannot afford is to start paying out vet bills for busted up feral animals that are out roaming around the neighborhood. A broken cat leg was going to be VERY expensive, and, cats being what they are, it had a near-zero likelihood of being successful at any rate.
But she wouldn't hear it.
"I'm not going to spend a bunch of money," she said. "Just a quick visit to get an opinion, and to see what it would cost to glue him back together."
What was I going to say? I knew a losing argument when I saw one.
"Suit yourself," I said, "but we aren't going to be paying for major cat repair."
The next evening when I got home, she said the vet had examined the little turd from one end to the other, and pronounced him healthy as a show cat, except for a variety of scabs he picked up when he'd apparently flopped into a nest of fire ants, and, of course, his leg.
Which was not broken.
"Nerve damage," the vet said. "I think he was hit by a car and just rolled under it instead of being run over, which is what beat him up so bad and there's some kind of damage to the nerves or his brain. I've x-rayed him from every angle, and I don't see anything in particular as far as broken bones or torn stuff. But I don't think the leg is coming back. Maybe it will. Probably not. He doesn't seem to be in any pain."
He went on to explain that the main problem at this point was that the constant dragging of the leg/foot around might eventually cause problems with infection, at which point he'd recommend amputation. But up until then, just leave him alone and see how he does, and whether he ever gets any function back. Then he quoted a number for the procedure if the leg were going to have to be removed.
Holy shit.
"We aren't going to be doing that," she told me. "If it gets to that, you'll have to take care of it."
The vet warned that there was only a so-so likelihood of success if amputation has to be done, although if the kitten lived, he'd learn to get around on three legs just fine, which he was probably going to have to learn in any event.
---------------------------------------
All that was over a week ago. Since then, he has showed up regular as clockwork for feedings, hobbling and stumbling along. He's figuring it out, although when he gets excited and tries to run, his rear foot steps on his front paw, which is still floppy as a sock, and it screws him up, and he tips over. He tries to play with the other kittens, really wants to, and they will some, but they begin ignoring him pretty quickly because he's too clumsy to keep up, although he's getting a little better at it.
The adults wouldn't have anything to do with him, although they haven't tried to run him off. He sleeps alone in a place the other kittens used to sleep, partially because it's a good hiding place, but mostly, I suspect, because it smells like company. He's very slowly integrating, but will never be one of "them."
The other day, I saw the Beneficiary with him in her lap, singing to him and scratching his ears as she rocked in the glider as evening came on. He was sleeping, and apparently happy as he could be.
The Beneficiary's been out of town for a few days, so I've been doing the cat-feeding routine. Tonight I found out that one of the females has begun hanging around with him after all. Her kittens have mostly grown and aren't around much, so she seems to have transferred over to him a bit, although she spends about as much time ignoring him as not. I tried to take a few pictures of him, getting these blurry shots -- he's moving all the time.
He's a tough little shit.
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| No, His Eyes Aren't "Squinty" -- He Just Doesn't Like The Flash |
He pressed up against my hand and made me pick him up. He nuzzled my fingers and started purring as loudly as I've ever heard a cat purr before. I scratched his ears a bit, and examined his leg. Still a dangling sock. But he's not wearing a hole in it (I don't know how, since he drags it and walks on it all the time,) and it looks good. It will doubtless atrophy eventually, then things are going to start getting damned expensive.
I wondered if it wouldn't be best to just go ahead and head off the inevitable problem right now, while she's out of town, and before we have to start deciding how much is too much. I carried him into the house, still scratching him, and went to the gun locker and pulled out the rifle.
Jesus I'm so fucking tired of killing things I can't begin to tell you.
He snuggled down between my arm and chest and licked my thumb, then looked up at me.
I sighed and put the rifle back into the locker.
Fuck it. It's only money.
I feel like there's a metaphor here for something. I'll dig around for it another day.
<3
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