Dear Min, Glad You Are Here

It was the sound of a child: sharp, loud, uncannily human.  Unrecognizable in sleep, I wondered for the merest of seconds how did a child get in the apartment?  The second cry was deeper, throatier, in pain, and reminded me of what is heard often in the rooms of a hospital during delivery, a primal sound of agony whose roots reach back to the days of dirt.  It was Min, who I found laying on the bathroom floor unable to move, calling, calling in bewilderment and anguish.  This was at 3:30 in the morning.

Min is my oldest at fifteen.  Her back legs seemed unable to work and she was drooling, another signal of intense pain.  Sliding my hands under her, I was able to get her to the couch, her claws clutching while her guttural cries continued, but less often since I had gotten to her.  She purred in rough, heaving rumbles, which a cat will also do when hurt.  No bones seemed broken, there had been no signs of distress from her previously.  In fact, her climbing up the bookshelf and subsequent play at the top shelf had caused admiration at her abilities in being the oldest of the cats, the other four now circling us in worried concern.  

Had she fallen?  Her head was now turned under into the blanket on the couch, one hind leg oddly extended forward in contortion.  After many emergencies in life, I have learned what they teach you on the airplanes: get yourself ready first in order to facilitate helping others.  I can't see ten inches in front of me, and there may be a fast drive involved.  I ran to get both my glasses and hastily dressed for a trip to the emergency vet.

This veterinary is a godsend, and their services have been used several times before.  Local doctors schedule themselves for the emergencies that occur in the night, taking turns.  It is required that you call ahead, which is what I did once I could see.  Min had pulled her leg in, was still purring loudly, drooling profusely, black tail bushed out.   I also learned that pencil and paper are best for saving an emergency number rather than waiting for an electronic device to fire up, unlock, password, find the file nonsense.  At the other end of the line was Rose, who spoke in efficient, calm clarity.

The lack of movement of Min's back legs were my largest concern, but Rose told me that cats don't have strokes, something new to me.  Were her legs cold?  No.  There was apparent feeling as she pulled her foot away when I checked.  Sometimes cats have something something something, the words are lost for Min suddenly lurched up, staggering, and the immense reason for the pain made itself known.

There were no heroic measures, the cat carrier and towels were left unused.  Her genuine incapacitation during the spasms were heart-wrenching and real, and the lack of movement combined with her dull, unfocused stare made me think of trauma.  Within the half hour, she stretched and dug her claws into the cardboard scratching tray, and genuinely seemed pleased and appreciative that I was there to help her.

They do, animals, appreciate our efforts.  Old orange cat Martian had an event that caused his back legs to go out but not his front.  I was sitting on the couch when he dragged himself to me and asked for help,      the emergency vet was visited and luckily the condition again was temporary.   The connection is there, and I believe most of us humans understand and welcome the commonality.  Min will be watched, but is now next to me on the couch, rowring her announcements and washing my hand.  It was a serious circumstance that can become crucial, this time things went well.

Today is overcast, and I am glad we didn't have to drive through red lights on early morning, empty streets.  There is a focaccia in the oven that I learned to make from a long-ago neighbor who generously shared recipes, and what sleep was missed is still overridden by the adrenalin surge.    Thankful is a fine word, and it is what I am.  See you the rest of this bright day, one that has the young shoots reaching upwards for the sun.