A Gut Feeling

The doctor is very nice. Very soft spoken. Very frank.

Cats have passed things like this before, but the risk is very great. And a needle could do a lot of painful internal damage on it's way out. 

Super. Next.

We could try endoscopy.  There may be a way to go down Trinket's throat and pull the needle out.

With what?  A magnet?  I ask for more information on that option.

He explains that the only real risks involve time.  They don't do endoscopy at this facility. I would have to drive to the nearest one that does, an hour away.  And in that time, the needle could have traveled further and make the endoscopy impossible. And then I'd be driving back presumably for surgery, which might be more complicated by the additional travel time. 

Not a great option after all.

Or he could do surgery now. He could have her on the table in 15 minutes.

He seems like a nice man. I ask him, "What would you do?" 

He tells me that surgery is the best option.  Endoscopy might just be prolonging the inevitable. Hoping she'll pass it seems dangerous and could be painful.  The most human option, and the best chance for success is surgery.

I agree to surgery and he goes to get consent forms.

The consent packet is pages and pages long. I have to decide on heroic measures. I have to opt in or out of pain meds. I have to decide on a threshold for treatment. I have to make a lot of seemingly harsh decisions about what I am willing to take financial responsibility for. The information leaves me breathless. Good thing. That way the alarming estimate doesn't propel me into a state of shock. 

I sign off on treatment and sign away my next paycheck. I ask if I can see Trinket one last time. He agrees and then tells me to go home. It will be a few hours and they will call me. I should not stay.

The tech brings her in. She is wrapped in a towel. She seems woozy. Three of her four legs have been shaved and there is a tiny IV in her front right leg, taped and oozing.  Her fur is wet. She has had her abdomen shaved.  She is pathetic.

I am visibly shaken by her appearance. The tech tries to calm me by telling me that I am in luck. This particular doc is one of their very best surgeons. Trinket will be well cared for.

I reach out and scratch her ears and the top of her head. She leans in to rest her little kitty head heavily on my palm and closes her eyes.  I kiss her goodbye and tell her she is my good girl. 

And again I am crying as I turn to go.  I feel like I've seen Trinket for the last time.

Picture This

I dress. I brush my teeth. I crate Trinket. I feed and cuddle Gidget so she does not feel orphaned just yet. 

As I drive to the vet's office, I realize that this ordeal started at 5:15 and I am on the road to a pretty heinous day at 5:45. A day that starts like this is not likely to pull out an extra innings win.  And again, I am crying. Just a little.

I try to be hopeful. Maybe the needle and thread are on the floor at home and I just didn't find them. Maybe the needle is stuck somewhere convenient and not too painful and the doctor can just pull it out. Maybe almost anything else happened.

I get to the office and walk in sullenly with my foreign-object swallower. The tech is a Goth enthusiast with 11 facial piercings and some scary tattoos and gauges in his earlobes that are filled with blobs of amber in which there are little entombed scorpions. Guessing he opted out of charm school.  He is very nice though, in spite of his almost scary appearance and he is very sweet to Trinket. 

The doctor comes in and asks me about the episode from this morning. He's pulled her chart. He knows all about the bat and the rabies and the fleas etc. Seems Trinket has been the Story of the Day at rounds these last few weeks. Which makes me Owner of the Day each time, for sure. I am so proud.

The doctor assures me that it is not uncommon for cats to eat weird things.  He's seen lots of oddball things come out of  cat, in spite of the dog species getting the bad rap for eating things that aren't food.  He says that for some reason, needles and thread hold great appeal to cats.

Somehow this makes me feel oddly better. Like if he's seen this situation a few times he's a pro.

He tells me he'd like to examine Trinket (who is with the tech) to see if she's really swallowed the thing.  I am encouraged that one of my other dreamed up options might not be so far flung.

He returns in a few moments to say that he did not find the needle protruding from her tongue or stuck in the back of her throat, or resting peaceably along side her gums.  He'll have to perform an X-ray to know for sure.

I consent.

They will have to sedate her a little.

I consent again. 

A few minutes later he returns.  He logs onto a the computer to show me the images.  I am alarmed that Trinket looks all stretched out and elongated like the cats we dissected in 10th grade biology. It gives me the shivers to see her body like that.

But the most alarming thing lies in the middle of the image.

There, shining like a beacon in the night, is the precise outline of a sewing needle. In such great detail that I can even see the eye of the needle.

"Well, no disputing that she ate it," I say.

And then, "What do we do now?"

Needle in a Haystack

Oh.
My.
Gawd!

That little trip to the night table was evidently a scavenger hunt.

I am not unlike most people in this respect. I have a little dish on my bedside table that has a lot of little unrelated pieces of junk in it. A button that fell off. A Chapstik. A fortune from a fortune cookie. A book of matches. And in this case, a needle and thread. I'd recently mended the hem on a black jacket and left the needle, with about 8 inches of thread still attached, in the dish with the other junk. 

Once I discovered the needle dangling from Trinket's mouth, I of course shrieked in horror.  Which of course, made Trinket scamper away.  I of course, gave chase, trapping her in the spare bedroom before she could hid under the treadmill. I grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and reached for he needle. Three of four times as she thrashed and squirmed and fought with me.  It took her only a few seconds to scramble from my grasp and dash down the stairs.

I spring to my feet and chase her as she runs. Down the first 6 steps. Turn on the landing. Down the next 6 steps. And then a hairpin turn across the center hall, through the dining room and into the kitchen where she stops to look at me. 

I flick on the light. Exactly 10 seconds has passed.

And I can see that the needle is gone!

Trinket is calmly walking away to hide in the basement.

I grab the phone from the center hall and call Scott. As I explain what has happened, I cradle the phone against my shoulder and drop to the floor. I retrace my footsteps, and more importantly, Trinket's pawsteps from the kitchen to the spare bedroom, feeling along the carpet and hardwood with my fingers, hoping to land on the needle and maybe even the thread. Please, God, let me find the needle.

Scott is very calm.  He is googling while I make my panicked hunt for the needle.  He tells me that I really need to call the vet and do it fast because a tiny cat is not a lot of body to pass through and a needle will be doing major damage in no time.  The alternative is pretty bleak.

When I am certain that the needle is gone I dial the vet. Of course I need to come in...the sooner the better. Trinket is on borrowed time.

The Cat That Ate the Canary, Or Worse

The next few days go much the same way.  I have Gidget confined to the penthouse suite and Trinket terrorizes her during every brief encounter.  It is madness. I've had to get very creative about carving out time to make each cat feel like the light of my life and frankly it is leaving my nerve endings in shreds.

When Gidget is out of view and beyond smelling range, Trinket is as lovable and sweet as ever. Curls up with me on the couch. Sleeps on my bed with me. Greets me like a puppy.

One morning, I reach down for her as she slept by my side and she climbs up to nose around near my face, purring the whole time. I reach out to pet her and she climbs onto my night table.  And very quickly she jumps down. As if she is in hot pursuit of something.

For a moment, I wonder if she's somehow managed to find a way to open the attic door and is off to pounce on the poor unsuspecting kitten whose wandered out to explore the rest of the forbidden house.

She runs back into my room and appears to be mauling something - paws flailing near her face as though she has something in her teeth. She is making a gaggy sound.  I am flinging off the covers to see what is happening.

I lean over the edge of the bed and talk to Trinket.  I can see that she is moving her head back and forth as she is silhouetted against the light carpet.  Maybe she ate something and is choking it down. She continues to make an awful gagging sound. 

"What is it, Trink?" I ask as I turn on the light, hoping that what she has is very dead and no more heinous than a cricket.

The light comes on and I look at her, and she at me. In my bleary-eyed view, I can see that she is trying to chew something. I lean in close and gasp in horror when I see what it is.

Not a cricket. Not a mouse. I can see something shiny dangling from her mouth along side her chin. 

My cat appears to be attempting to swallow a needle and thread!

Wait'll You See My Gidget...

Gidget and I get to know each other over the weekend. She is a sweet little thing and the dogs love her.  I am growing hopeful about the homecoming with Trinket. She needs a friend to hand with while I am toiling away at work all day, right?

Not so fast.

On Sunday morning, I gather all the kitty gear, and my gear and my work gear and head for home feeling optimistic about the introduction. On the drive home, I plan what to do. Trinket always greets me when I come home like you'd expect to be greeted by a puppy.  She hears the car, and comes to the kitchen window. She perks up as I walk through the opening in the hedge and smile at her and wave. She leaps down from the counter and greets me at the back door. And then, as I walk in and up the steps, she leaps to the surface of the dining table to climb into my arms and purr, tucking her head into the hollow between my neck and shoulder.

Today is no different. I leave the Gidge in the car in the carrier as I bring my things in. I go through the hole routine with Trinket, which ends with the usual snuggles and a handful of treats.  After we've spent a few minutes together I bring in the carrier, which feels empty with only a half pound cat in it.  As I place it on the kitchen floor, still closed to prevent any abrupt, accidental confrontations.  Trinket walks calmly, curiously over to the crate.  No visible signs of distress.  I can see her nostrils flaring as she sniffs out the competition.

And that is where the cordiality ends.

Hissing. Growling. Pawing at the crate. Maniacal meowing and posturing to pounce.

I snatch the crate and scowl at Trinket who retreats to the basement. I go upstairs to the attic and get Gidget settled. Baby-proof the place. Set up the kitty litter.  Stock the fridge with fresh water and kitten supplement milk.  Put away the bag of kitten chow and cans of smelly wet food. I take care of everything -  as though I'd brought home a new baby.

What I forge to take care of is closing the attic door tightly behind me. As I turn to put Gidget down in her new little bed, I am confronted by Trinket who has crept up behind us. And she looks none too happy.

I hold Gidget securely and get down on one knee a few feet from Trinket.  I speak as sweetly and soothingly as I can.  "Look Trink...a friend for you.  A little bud..."

And just like that Trinket is howling like a jungle animal moving in for the kill. "Don't you dare!"  I screech, and she is racing for the steps.

As I place Gidget in her bed to go secure the door, I realize my heart is pounding and beads of sweat have formed on my forehead.  This is not going to be easy.

Kitty Bits

It is not a restful night. Kitty meows a lot. And the dogs, at least four of the five, come a-running to see what the matter is with their youngest little family addition. I remember when we brought Cooper home. They did the same thing.  It can get very noisy.

Eventually, I go and get the kitten and bring her into the bed. I am deathly afraid of rolling over on her/him squishing her/him. I lay on my back and it tucks in under my chin and immediately begins to purr. And falls completely and soundly asleep.  Eventually, so do I, with a warm live scarf that only occasionally digs a nail into my jugular.

It is not the best night but I've had two children so half sleep is not the worst I've endured. Certainly nothing me and the Keurig machine can't fix. 

I am working from Scott's house so I have set up the command center. Iphone. Blackberry. Laptop.  Ipad. Files and notebooks. I have everything spread out on the counter in front of me...and the kitten behind me in the kitty condo. 

Every so often, between conference calls that are occasionally punctuated with meows, I take my phone and laptop into the bedroom to let the kitten run about more freely.  On one of these sojourns, I text James about the kitten. 

He writes back, "Do we know what it is yet?" 

"No, I am still perplexed by the parts. How can they be so confusing?"

He writes back, "That's because a cat's penis is not on the outside."

I love the way some people use the proper names of naughty parts with such ease. And a straight face. And without having to whisper. James must have grown up in a naked house. 

He continues, "Don't panic. Eventually you'll figure it out. You can just not name Kitty until it is a little older. And then either there will magically appear a set of testicles or not."

Yep. Definitely grew up in a naked house.

I secretly was hoping that he'd offer to take a look and ask me to snap a picture of the cat's crotch on my cell phone and text it to him. Could one of us get arrested for that? 

He doesn't offer. He just says that it would be easier if the cats could just talk. 

Yes it would be.

But I have a stroke of genius. Scott's type of genius. He always consults YouTube for instructions on the most obscure things.  How to change the spark plugs on a 2008 Toyota FJ Cruiser. How to repair a refrigerator fan. How to install a gas range.

I search YouTube for "How to tell if my kitten is a female or male."

Hundreds of videos come up as matches. Do people sit around making these wacky instructional videos all day?  Can anyone just put anything out there?  What if they decide to give you wrong information. Like the hip bone's connected to the ankle bone?  Do you have to be skeptical? Hil has learned how to braid her hair from YouTube.  It is a whole untouched frontier for me. 

Someone calling herself "Dr. Wendy" appears to be the best match.  I am in awe as Dr. Wendy demonstrates how she, a veterinarian, determines the genders of her young patients.  It is exceptionally complicated and requires a couple of viewings, my glasses and a little guess work.

But after three consecutive views of Dr. Wendy's Gender Determining Tricks of the Veterinary Trade, I very confidently take to Facebook.

I post the picture of the kitten Scott first sent to me.  And then I write, "Meet Gidget!"

It's a girl!

What Have We Here

I get to Scott's hours after I'd hoped.  Damn rambling parents. I really don't fault them. It was the idiotic person chairing the meeting that let the bleeding heartness of it all bleed all over everything. I might have been more forgiving if there had been better food. A baby quiche or some crab dip would have worked wonders. A cocktail would have, too.

Scott usually greets me at the door, but tonight he does not. And of course it is the night that I am dragging my suitcase, cat gear, my briefcase, and a bag of groceries.  I am moderately annoyed as I struggle to get in the door and the dogs, which now number 5, try to escape.  If anyone had been attempting to sleep through my arrival, all bets are off.

A little peeved, I haul my armloads of stuff into Scott's room even more perplexed that he seems to be awake, yet reclining on the bed in spite of my (highly anticipated) arrival.

And then I realize why.

Sitting on his bare chest is the tiniest little ball of gray fuzz I have ever seen.  Scott puts his finger to his lips to suggest I whisper (instead of squeal about the extreme cuteness I am witnessing).  I quietly put my things down and come sit by Scott on the bed. The fuzzball stirs, and suddenly I am face to face with the biggest roundest green eyes I have ever seen. And then the fuzzball sprouts legs and it's little gray body is toddling unsteadily toward me on little white feet. I am overwhelmed with adoration.

I pick up my little fur ball and hold it close. It is no more than half a pound and could fit in a tea cup. I want to squeeze it in the worst way. 

Scott gets up. He wants to show me where he's been keeping the little dust bunny.  We walk into the kitchen and up on the table is the giant dog crate. On the table! He's placed a cardboard box in the crate with a company sweatshirt folded up for a bed. There is a tiny saucer of water and a tiny plate of food. And a makeshift kitty litter fashioned from the 8 x 8 brownie pan. (Note to self, replace brownie pan immediately and bury current one in recycling bin.)

It is so cute that Scott has made the little kitty condo.  He's so proud of himself and he's taken such care to make her safe and comfortable and not be too accessible to the dogs.  It warms my heart. 

I am feeling so much less annoyed now - I ask Scott to come over under the kitchen light to look at kitty's little private parts. I want to know what I should call this little bundle of adorableness so I can begin to squeal his or her name a million times a day like a loon. 

He takes her little tiny body in his massive hands and walks with me to the light above the sink.  It is the brightest. We could perform surgery quite competently under this light. He deftly flips kitty onto her back (and remarkably she does not object) and pulls back the tail.  Exclamation mark?  Maybe. Question mark is more like it. I have no idea whether I am holding Gidget or Ringo.