Are we really sure the purring is coming from the kitty and not from our very own hearts?
~Emme Woodhull-Bäche
“Look at this one, he’s gorgeous.” Orange and white markings adorned the kitten from the tip of his tail to the top of his head. I stuck my finger through the bars and scratched him as best I could, and then asked if I could hold him.
“Sure,” the young girl said. “He’s only been here a couple of days. Cute, huh?” She plopped the plump kitten into my arms. He was heavier than he looked.
“How old is he?”
“Not real sure. He was dropped off without any information,” the girl replied. “Maybe six months?”
“He’s really pretty,” my husband Roger said, which sounded funny coming from a guy, but I had to agree. “He looks strong, like one of those cartoon cats with a football helmet on its head. He’s probably healthy as a horse.”
“Looks like it,” I said, and told the young girl we’d give this marmalade cat a new home. She was very happy to write up another adoption. We named him Red for his coloring, but we should have called him Smasher or Offensive Tackle. He smacked his head into anything he could, then rubbed back and forth. We soon learned it was to mark his scent on us and also to get his head scratched. He loved that part. We happily obliged.
The best part came when I’d return home from getting color and a weave at the hair salon. Plopping myself on the couch after almost four hours in the beautician’s chair, I’d let out an exasperated sigh. That’s when Red would come running. He would jump up to the top cushion and proceed to head-butt me over and over. “Red, what’s gotten into you?” I’d say, but he’d keep going.
“Why don’t you move,” my husband said with a smile, “or get off the couch?”
“Nah, let him have his fun. I don’t mind.” After a few minutes, Red would sink into the pillow top and nestle his full-bellied body right up against my head. “What is it, the smell you think?” I asked Roger, not turning my head to talk to him but inquiring while sitting very still.
“I don’t know, but he’s happy as a clam.”
“And probably falling asleep, right?”
Roger laughed. “Yeah, he is.”
What we didn’t know about this outgoing, playful, growing-like-a-weed cat was that his size and strength belied a hidden condition. And even if we’d known about it upon adopting him, we still would have taken him in.
Red’s robust size of twelve pounds never gave him any trouble — a big but healthy cat. His meows and constant clamoring for attention were part of his charm, and we never tired of talking to him. Having orange and white cat hair stuck to the back of our pants was okay with us, too. It was a small price to pay for a cat who loved us.
Then, when Red was almost ten, he began to lose weight. He never stopped doing his head-butts, and he still loved to be petted, squashed right next to one of us on the sofa. But he was losing weight rapidly, and his visits to the litter box became more and more frequent. I took him to the vet. “Diabetic,” Dr. Love pronounced. “No way you could have known or could have stopped it.” The kind vet looked me straight in the eyes. “Cats get it more often than you’d think. It can be managed.”
“Great,” I said while rubbing Red’s neck. “What do we have to do?”
After hearing all about the twice-a-day insulin shots and the diabetic-management cat food, we were armed for battle.
“Okay, who’s going to give him the shot?” Roger asked the first morning. “The vet showed you how to do it, right?”
“Yup, and it’s super easy. Call Red up here.”
Roger stood at the kitchen counter. “Come on, Red. Get on up here.” Red jumped up on a chair, onto the table, and then onto the counter, and then immediately head-butted Roger’s hand and let out a huge meow. He stood stock still as I pinched his fur, inserted the short needle, and injected the insulin.
“Done. Good boy, Red.” I turned to Roger. “Your turn tonight.”
And that’s the way it went for five years. Red jumped up every morning and every evening, head-butted our hands, and then stood still for his insulin injection. There wasn’t a cowardly bone in his body. We came to call him our Courageous Lion because of his size and coloring, but also his courage. He seemed to know those shots kept him well, and after adjustments to the dosage to get it right for his size, Red regained all of his weight.
In the sixth year after he was diagnosed, a trip to the vet revealed that he no longer needed the insulin or the diabetic-management cat food. We would have continued his regimen for as long as he needed it, but the tests didn’t lie. Maybe his Courageous Lion attitude had head-butted that nasty diabetes to the curb.
During those years of twice-a-day insulin shots, I gradually began to see that Red’s fearlessness was teaching me something. Whenever I faced a challenge of my own, I’d think of him. If Red had the strength and courage to meet his disease head-on, then I could meet my own situations head-on, too. My cowardly lion style was replaced by the same fearlessness that Red exhibited. What a great role model that little cat turned out to be.
~B.J. Taylor
