Always the cat remains a little beyond the limits we try to set for him in our blind folly.
~Andre Norton
My mother’s words felt like a punch to the stomach. “Figaro’s been hit by a car. She’s dead.” Figaro was a feral cat we’d been feeding in our barn for years. Though she’d never let me pet her, the sight of Figaro’s golden eyes watching while I mucked stalls was a familiar comfort. Now, without warning, she was gone.
And that wasn’t even the worst part. Barely a week earlier, Figaro had given birth. Now, as Mom and I stared at one another, I knew we were both thinking the same thing: The kittens had just become orphans.
Choking back my tears, I walked out to the barn. I found Figaro’s babies in an old cardboard box: three tiny balls of fur — two orange, one black. Their eyes were closed, and their ears were folded up. As I leaned closer, the sightless kittens started hissing, realizing I wasn’t their mother.
They had no idea their lives had just changed forever.
My legs were leaden as I carried the box to the house. Mom went to buy milk-replacement formula while I researched how to care for my new “children.” At first, my efforts weren’t appreciated. The kittens screeched and flailed whenever I tried to feed them, their claws decorating my skin with scratches. I learned how to tell the two orange kittens apart — one had a white stripe down his nose — and established a feeding order. Unfortunately, by the time I finished with the third kitten, it was almost time to start feeding the first one again.
Several sleep-deprived days later, things weren’t going well. Though they were thriving physically, the kittens still shrieked every time I touched them. They happily nuzzled the stuffed dog I’d given them, but had no interest in cuddling with their adoptive mom. I was only a source of food and nothing more.
Then one night, as I was holding the stripe-nosed kitten in my hand, gently cleaning him with a washcloth, I realized that he wasn’t struggling anymore. Instead, he was staring at me. His calm, blue-gray eyes gazed deep into mine, like he was looking directly into my soul. Our eyes remained locked on each other for several long seconds, and then something amazing happened — a low rumbling noise started to fill the air.
“Are you… purring?” I asked incredulously.
The rumbling grew louder, and I couldn’t stop the grin that stretched across my face. Suddenly, all those lost hours of sleep meant nothing.
Over the next week, I managed to “melt the ice” with the other two kittens. As the days passed, blue eyes transformed to amber-gold, and our house became filled with scampering feet. The stripe-nosed kitten, Sputnik, matured into a powerful athlete. He never missed a chance to leap onto the kitchen counter. He loved showing off his cleverness by stealing rubber bands, opening cupboard doors, and flipping light switches. And, like his siblings, Sputnik adored “Cuddle Time.” As months turned to years, I forgot what it felt like to watch TV with an empty lap or sleep without three warm balls snuggled beside me.
Then, one morning, everything changed. There was a cat on my pillow and another cat by my feet, but the space by my waist was empty. I noticed Sputnik limping toward the bed.
“What’s wrong, buddy?” I asked. “Did you hurt your leg?”
Clearly untroubled, he hopped on the mattress, settled in, and fell asleep. Later that day, though, the limp was worse. Our veterinarian diagnosed Sputnik with a ruptured disc in his back, which was affecting the nerves in his right rear leg. The doctor prescribed some anti-inflammatory medicine and told us it would be a long recovery.
On the way home, we bought a low-sided litter box so Sputnik could climb in without bumping his leg. But by the time we got back to the house, he couldn’t even stand up. And by nine o’clock that night, Sputnik had lost the use of his right front leg, too.
Tears streaming down my face, I showed Mom his floppy, useless front leg. We both knew his condition was far more serious than the vet thought. Back at the clinic, a different vet tested Sputnik for diabetes, but the test was negative. X-rays showed nothing, and eventually the doctors could only narrow it down to four possibilities: a ruptured disc in Sputnik’s neck, a stroke, an aneurysm, or a brain tumor.
The vets advised us to continue medicating him and hope for the best, but also to prepare for the worst. Back at home, we wrapped towels around all the chair legs so Sputnik wouldn’t hurt himself. I could feel his confusion and fear as he tried to walk and failed miserably. The cat who could once easily leap onto the kitchen counter now couldn’t even take one step without collapsing. Mom and I took turns helping him get to the food dish and the litter box. We carefully repositioned Sputnik’s legs every time they crumpled beneath him and put mats on the hardwood floor to keep him from slipping. We arranged our schedules so he always had supervision, and I even started sleeping on the floor so I could see where he was any time I opened my eyes.
As I watched my cat struggle and suffer, my mind floated back to that moment eleven years earlier when he first started purring in the palm of my hand. And, selfishly, I thought, Eleven years wasn’t enough.
I needed more time, but it didn’t look like I would get it. Sputnik’s left pupil became more dilated than his right one — a condition called Horner’s Syndrome — and the prognosis was grimmer than ever. Emotions raged within me, my own selfish needs battling with doing what was best for my cat… my baby.
While I was in turmoil, Mom held onto hope. It was Mom who said, “Look!” whenever Sputnik took two successful steps in a row. It was Mom who cheered whenever he picked himself up after falling.
At first, I wouldn’t let myself get pulled into her excitement. But soon, the progress was undeniable. One day, he would walk three steps in a row — the next day, four. Despite his dire prognosis, he was getting better. Day by day, Sputnik regained the ability to walk. Eventually, to our very great surprise, he even relearned how to run and jump.
Now thirteen years old and the most spoiled cat imaginable — Mom calls him “The Prince of Everything” — Sputnik is still going strong. He walks, runs, and climbs. We may never know what happened to him, but we do know there’s a chance he could relapse. A brain tumor could start growing again; a blood vessel could rupture.
As I learned thirteen years ago, life can change in an instant. In a single rush of oncoming tires, three kittens lost their mother. In a single day, a rowdy, rambunctious cat lost the ability to walk. Somehow, against all odds, he regained it. Anything could happen tomorrow, but for right now, we’re happy to take things one day — one step — at a time.
~Gretchen Bassier
