It's been a few days, and I realized the last thing I talked about on this site was cat poop. Not a good way to win fans, so I figured I’d better go for a bit of balance. Here’s a story about a rat.

It was Monday, and like all Mondays, it sucked. Actually, the story started on Sunday, when my oldest stepdaughter complained that her rat was feeling listless and wasn’t very spry. Spry is my word. Teenagers don’t use words like spry. It was 11:30 at night and I told her the vet wasn’t open and we’d see how the critter was doing in the morning. I have to say, I wasn’t very attached to this rat and I didn’t really give it another thought. I mean, it was kind of cute in that it was white with brown patches and its whiskers wiggled a lot, but at the end of the day it was a still a rat. As you may have judged by my judicious use of words like “was” and “wiggled,” what we have now is an ex-rat, a rat which has ceased to exist, a rat which has released itself from its mortal bonds.

Here’s what happened.

Monday morning rolled around and the kids were in school, mom at work. I figured I'd better deal with the animal or the teenager would be all over me, so I popped into her room to check on it. Stepping over clothes, make-up products and CDs, I managed to get near the cage and open the little door. I poked the rat with a curious index finger, and that's when this connection formed. Here was this little animal, engineered by God and placed on this earth for the sole purpose of making my girl happy. It was just laying there on its side, breathing way to slowly, its little whiskers not twitching in the slightest. I gave it another experimental poke; a forepaw came up and touched me gently, as if to reassure me.

'It' becomes a 'she'

It was quite a moment. I realized that the rat was not an 'it', but a 'she,' and that she was going to the vet. I drove her there at about 10:00, showed her to the assistant, and did that bravado thing where I spoke in a manly voice and explained that this visit was all about my teenager and that I wanted them to do all they could for her pet. I didn't cry right there, because it's only a rat, right? She said the vet was busy till 11:15 and to bring Lucy (that's the rat's name) back for a thorough examination. She figured it may be cancer or liver damage, and in neither case was the prognosis good. I went back home to wait it out.

Lucy died at 11:00. She was right beside me the whole time, and she just stopped breathing. I sat there, just looking at her for what seemed like hours. She looked peaceful now in her little blanket, unafraid. I petted her a couple more times, kind of hoping that maybe she'd start right up again and wiggle her nose at me. It wasn't going to happen, though, so I picked up the phone and cancelled the vet appointment. Then I cried for a bit and phoned my stepdaughter's dad's place to let them know. Lucy was inherited from them, and they still cared very much for her. I broke the news to my girl later in the day, and she took it better than I thought she would. It was expected, I think.

Puncture

I needed a hug. When I need a hug, I go find our cat. This isn't to say that she likes to hug me, or anybody else for that matter. She's an outdoorsy, hunter-y cat, and her social skills are therefore lacking. She comes in to eat and nap, then she's back out to beat the crap out of the neighbour's cat or to kill a mouse and bring some home to share. She always leaves me the back half. I don't know why, but it's not right.

My search for a hug would go well that day, as the cat was hungry and awaiting my attention at the back door. That's the best time to trap her; she's weak and pliable. I let her in, pretending I had no interest at all in her. I just looked out past her, casually searching the back deck for rodent tails or unattached limbs. Then, as she strode past me, I leapt into action and snatched her up for the hug. Normally she meows in protest while at the same time purring in sheer joy, but this time she screamed at me. I almost screamed back, as I had stuck my finger into something oozy and disgusting; she had a wound of some sort, and it wasn't a little one.

Ignoring her protests, I flipped her over, trapped her between my knees, and did an examination. After I puked a little in the back of my throat, I called the vet back and said "hey, guess what!"

Long story short, our cat was winning a fight with the neighbour's cat insofar as she was on top, and the neighbour's cat lashed out with a hind leg, tearing a three inch gash in our poor kitty. The wound was initially unremarkable, but it festered for a couple of days and finally exploded like a volcano. Our outdoorsy, hunter-y cat came home with sutures, some pattern baldness, and enough drugs in her to glaze her eyes for 24 hours. It's the happiest I've ever seen her. I have to force antibiotics into her every day for a week, but I quite enjoy that part. It's "together" time, even if she's spitting and hissing at me. The worst part for her, though, is that she has to stay inside for two weeks. Two weeks. The vet also recommended that she transform her life and become an indoor cat. I was too weak from the death of a loved one to object, so I went out and bought the mother of all litter boxes.

I thank the good Lord that she remembers how to use one.

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