The other alley cat
we haven't had a feline update in a while
“What’s his name? Is he in our system?”
The vet is hovering over his laptop keyboard and here I am again, naming a cat that isn’t mine.
**
Ok, let’s back up.
In May I wrote about Cat, the friendly community tabby who found a kindly soul in the downstairs tenant and so is a building regular. Her injury when I brought her in that time wasn’t severe, thankfully, and she was her old self before long. I missed the window for getting her spayed due to my trip, and by the time I got back a second litter was forthcoming. Only one kitten survived from each—a black one from the first and a small fuzzy grey tabby from the second.
**
The downstairs tenant and I seem to discuss either cats or water whenever we meet, and it was on regular trip in or out, up or down, when he told me he hadn’t seen the only remaining black kitten in a while.
“Oh, I saw it, it was outside in the corner of the next-door garden.”
We went out to check and there he was: I’d known it wasn’t Marv even from a distance as it was collarless, and smaller. But something wasn’t right. It yowled at us well enough, but didn’t seem to want to move from its sitting position. When we tried to approach to see what was wrong, it finally moved, but with difficulty. Though not enough that we could catch it. A few days passed and it continued to sit and cry, but bolt whenever we got close. We tried to corner it, food in a plastic carrying basket to entice it in, but this little dude was having none of it. That’s when we saw… part of his tail was no longer there.
I called the vet to see if they had any TNR-type cages, but they could only refer me to an animal charity clear across town that might. It was between Dasain and Tihar, and holidays are never the best time to get anything done.
**
Then, unexpectedly: “We’ve caught him, we’ve caught him, come down!” and there were two neighbours tying the lid on the plastic basket, itself weighted down with a comically oversize weight, as the little black cat whipped up a storm inside.
And that’s how I found myself once again, sitting in a taxi with a basket containing a cat that wasn’t mine.
Except this one was much, much angrier.
**
The vet’s office had, just days earlier, moved to a new, more convenient location and while Regular Vet appeared to be on holiday, Replacement Vet, whom I had spoken to about the cat a few days earlier, was in, and together we took angry little kitten upstairs. The new room is large and bright, one wall lined with metal enclosures, perhaps four by four, or sixteen altogether.
Despite his serious injury, or perhaps because of it, this kitten was not trusting us one little bit. I’d made little to no effort to socialize him and his late sister. If I’m honest, I didn’t want to love more animals than I already have and do.
So.. moving him from basket to kennel was less than successful, and he ended up behind the tall metal stacks of cages, which had to be moved. Thick, leather full-arm gloves were produced and finally, hissing and spitting, we got him in and the door was closed. I say we, but… who am I kidding. I let the professionals do it.
“Don’t worry, give him a week and he’ll be relaxed and tame,” said Replacement Vet.
Ha.
**
A day or two later Replacement Vet called to ask if I could come; there was some sort of problem. I rushed over, expecting the worst, but instead got an explanation that he could have easily told me over the phone: they’d put kitty under and cleaned up his wound, which was showing signs of necrosis. If that was all it was, it should heal. If it was, instead, gangrenous, there was nothing they could do. They could not be sure, of course, but surmised the injury could have begun as a burn or a shock, that a live electric wire, perhaps in contact with a tin roof that he jumped onto… It wasn’t a very nice thought, but better than the alternative.
Over the next three and a half weeks, I visited, texted, or called every so often. Tihar came and went. Regular Vet returned. Part of the problem was that, despite Replacement Vet’s optimism, the small black cat never did warm to people, and had to get knocked out in order for them to give him almost any treatment at all.
In the end, his tail did not heal properly and had to be fully amputated, but he finally healed up and nearly four weeks after I first brought him in, he got the all-clear.
They’d neutered him as I’d requested but asked about vaccines.
“Give him everything he needs, now. I don’t think we’re ever going to catch that cat again.”
Up we went, where once again the long, thick gloves made an appearance. A staff member snipped something off the cage—was that a ziptie? And then I saw the piece of white surgical tape that served as a label:
Ah. So much for getting used to this.
As soon as the kennel door was open a crack, the cat bolted. Grabbed, he first peed and when caught again across the room, defecated in a perfect, neat line as well. Finally one tech pinned him down while the other gave him two shots. Into the basket he went, the lid secured with gauze strips tightly tied, and he was turned over to me.
I tried to speak to him soothingly—might it seem familiar and calm him?—but he was having none of it.
And that’s how I found myself settling the bill—and, once Regular Vet realized Replacement Vet had never entered the cat into the system, asking me his name.
“Uhm, he’s not my cat…” I said, without conviction. I knew how this was going to end. A name is needed for registration—incidentally this is the first and only vet I’ve ever been to here that has a computerized system, a good thing but not now.
“The person who looks after him call him Kalu, we could…” Fingers hovered over the keys as the vet gave me a look. Of course. How many animals with variations on the name Blackie were already in his system. As with his mother, I pulled a name out of nowhere.
“Oliver? How about Oliver?” Regular Vet did not look like he thought it was a good name but entered it in.
“Pumpkin? That’s better, isn’t it?” Looking down at the small yowler and thinking of Halloween.
Regular Vet agreed that it would have been better, but it was too late. I thanked my lucky stars that vet care in Nepal is relatively cheap and also that the vet knows me well enough to tell me to bring the rest next time when I didn’t have it all. That man knows I’ll be back.
Usually people bring in yowling animals and leave with happy, or happier, ones, but all heads turned as little Oliver/Pumpkin/Kalu made his displeasure known as we left the building, located a startled taxi driver—“Oh! I thought it was a baby!” is a common reaction—and headed home.
As the taxi pulled up. I saw Mama Cat wandering down the alley in the other direction, but it only took one anguished yowl from the basket for her to turn abruptly and hurry to investigate. It was a relief.
**
What I should have called him was Bunny. He looks for all the world like a cute little rabbit, or Manx cat I suppose, and he seems to hop like a bunny, too, though I’m probably imagining that part.
He gets along surprisingly well with his small grey sibling, whom I am making an effort to befriend for when it needs to go along to the vet itself one day, hopefully not under such circumstances.
Photos are impossible because I am clearly persona non grata, and when I try I am left with an image of his rapidly retreating rear end, which while it is adorable, doesn’t make for much of a picture. Today I looked out and saw him down in the garden, relaxed, sleeping, paws in the air—you can see it up top—and it’s all worth it. There are too many needy animals, one can’t help them all, and Marv likes his space. But helping the one literally in front of one’s nose—it’s the least I can do.