There are no ordinary cats.
~Colette
I sauntered toward the old barn and idly glanced around, expecting to see our barn cat. Ginger normally met me midway from the gate and meowed to remind me that it was suppertime. Her rambunctious kitten was generally close behind. Oddly, there was no sign of either.
As I opened the barn door, an unexplainable sense of dread flowed through me. I tried to rationalize that Ginger had probably taken her new kitten out on his first hunting expedition. A faint mew from their favorite sleeping spot dispelled that hope.
Ginger and her kitten were snuggled together in a tight little ball that only cats can accomplish. She raised her head, and dejectedly laid it back down. I picked up her limp and lifeless kitten. He struggled to lift his head, which was swollen to nearly twice its normal size.
I grabbed the kitten and sped down the highway toward the vet clinic, which was eighteen miles away. Dr. Wyand was locking the door to his clinic when I arrived, but he turned back without question and unlocked the door as my car approached.
After careful examination, he parted the kitten’s soft orange-and-white fur to reveal what looked like puncture marks on the head and neck. He then repeated the demonstration on the other side. While it was of no significance to me, Dr. Wyand nodded knowingly. The kitten had been attacked by a hawk, and the puncture marks were from its talons.
After a long pause, he said, “I can treat the infection, but I have no way of predicting what permanent damage he might suffer.” He opened the eyelids to reveal nystagmus, an involuntary oscillation of the eyeball that indicates neurological damage. Dr. Wyand broke the silence and said, “He obviously put up the fight of his life to get away from the hawk. He deserves a chance to put up a second fight.”
Two days later, the swelling had reduced considerably, but the once playful, energetic kitten remained weak and wobbly. We had done what we could and now he needed to heal. Only time would tell how much neurological function he would recover.
I knew Chico would miss his mother, but recovery in the barn was not an option. He could not walk more than a couple of steps. His front legs would go in one direction, and his hind legs in another.
Chico would lose his balance in the litter box, so bathing him in the bathroom sink became our daily routine. One day, when I placed him in the sink of warm water, he began moving his legs. It was a swimming motion that showed actual coordination, and our first sign of what might be true progress.
Over the next several weeks, his coordination improved, and the need for his bath routine ceased. He could now walk relatively well, but he had not fully regained his ability to travel in a straight line. His hind legs often trailed off at a 45-degree angle to his front legs. Seeing a cat toy and being able to go directly to it was a feat that eluded him. But he was equally happy to stumble over one of his favorite toys when he least expected it.
The next goal he set for himself was the sofa! The synchronization required for jumping had not returned. Christmas Day, however, offered Chico another opportunity. A gift box sitting adjacent to the sofa was low enough for Chico to jump on, and from there he made it to the sofa. It was another milestone in his recovery.
One night, after a particularly stressful day at work, I decided to take a nice leisurely bath. After I filled the tub, I decided to get a glass of wine, and when I returned to the bathroom, I was shocked. Chico was swimming in the bathtub. Did he know that water was good therapy? Did he miss his playtime in the sink? Or, more likely, did he try to jump onto the side of the tub, and a lack of coordination landed him in the water?
Regardless of the reason, swimming in the bathtub became a routine. While I preferred he didn’t swim before I had a bath, we had an agreement that he could have his therapy session afterward.
Because Chico was deaf as a result of the neurological damage, we taught him to walk on a leash at a young age. He wasn’t allowed to wander on his own, so we went for walks in the grassy vacant lot next to our house, and I took him to the farm to visit his mother. He learned to enjoy riding in a vehicle.
By summer, other than the deafness that he had learned to accept, he was pretty much a normal cat and very much a part of the family. When it was decided that we should go on an RV adventure to see the Pacific Ocean, Chico was included without question.
He found his favorite spot on the dashboard of the RV and entertained many a service-station attendant by trying to catch the squeegee through the front window. In the evenings, we stayed in RV parks and would take Chico, wearing his harness and leash, for a walk.
After a long day inside the RV, I took Chico for a walk along the shore when we reached our final destination. He was normally a very obedient cat on the leash, but this time he kept tugging and trying to get closer to the water. It became clear that he was determined to experience the biggest bathtub he had ever seen!
And why not? I walked out into ankle-deep water and let Chico enjoy his now familiar dog paddle. He seemed unconcerned with the occasional small wave. After several minutes, I decided it was time to end the adventure. I cradled the soggy cat in my arms as we headed back to the RV. I was unaware of the semi-circle of people who had lined up along the beach and were watching us. As I approached them, I felt that I owed them some sort of explanation, so I blurted out, “But he WANTED to go for a swim!”
So if you ever hear of what sounds like a far-fetched story about a woman from Canada who took her cat to swim in the Pacific Ocean… well, that cat tale is actually true!
~Brenda Leppington
