Well, those of you following the adventures of Disaster Cat know that when we last left off our story, our pantry was somewhat put together, but one of kitties was not very happy. Thor, a four year old forest cat who lives in our bedroom, was discovered to have a Giant Ear, when the Disaster Cat went upstairs to change clothing. A gadget called an Elizabethan Collar was rigged together out of cardboard to stop him scratching his swollen ear. Since many cats recover from this condition on their own we didn't worry much. Besides, husband and I had to go to Germany in two days. It was a business trip and there was nothing we could do about it. Meanwhile, the cat had taken about 3.5 hours to remove both attempts at the cardboard collars, ripping them to tiny shreds with his claws.
A note about Norwegian Forest Cat claws, they are described in breeder's manuals as "long, strong and hooked claws.." And the books mean it. The reason is that Forest Cats are not exactly domestic cats. Like many things at Kilmurry House they are not quite what they seem. No, Forest Cats are what happens when a Viking gets a bunch of long haired cats from Turkey, circle 900 AD and has some of them go feral in his back yard. Which happens to be the Norwegian Forest...About 1,000 years later you have a forest full of very large, very furry and very intelligent cats. Cats who have developed claws that can climb the sear-rock-cliff faces, of Norway. Personal experience has also shown that these claws can also be used to climb five feat up a linoleum tiled bathroom wall when faced with a bath full of water. Our breeders guidebook failed to inform of us of this later ability.
But to return to our story, having shredding both collars in a small amount of time, we decided that Thor would have to live without one while we were gone. Besides, we had noticed an unfortunate side effect of said collar, the kitty could not er...um...attend to his personal needs by himself. And while "Mummy" and "Daddy" can be called upon to help with this duty, we could not ask our cat-allergic house-mate to do so. So we gave up on the collar and went on our trip. House-mate agreed to check cat at least once a day, which he did.
We arrive home four days later, hoping to find the cat doing better.
"How is he," we asked our House-mate?
"Well, he spent most of his time hiding in his covered litter box, so I didn't see him much. I don't think he was too happy though," came the reply.
Uh oh, we go upstairs and find that not only is kitty's ear not any smaller (untreated Giant Ear's tend to just shrivel up, cat looks funny for life but is fine otherwise) if anything its gotten larger. Cat is indeed sitting lurking in his covered toilet looking glum. Removing him from this location merely reveals a lethargic, confused cat with an ear half the size of my fist. Not good, not good at all.
So, the next day, the kitty gets a trip to the vet. I knew things were not going well, when for the first time ever a normally placid cat, who thinks that leash means "lets go outside," did not want me to put it on. Obviously the cat sensed something. Husband decides not to bother and plonks cat in cat carrier. Two miles down a busy road, cat discovers that the locks on the carrier are not working anymore and springs out of the carrier and rushes under my seat. Husband is telling me to make sure the cat does not go under my seat (which is where he already is) since the cat can get into the engine from there. This was something I had not known before, just as I had not known the cat carrier was broken. Neither item was a piece of information I was very a happy with. However, I managed to extract the cat leash from my purse where I had stuffed it with one hand, and grab the cat by the other. This was made harder by the fact that my short stature (4'8")makes it impossible for me to reach the floor of the car without undoing my seat belt. Meanwhile, husband finds a turn in on our two lane rural road and stops the car. I grasp cat firmly, pull up and then spend 10 minutes trying to untangle lead while cat trays to climb back down toward the car engine. Finally we get cat secured and realize that cat carrier is hopeless. So I hold leashed cat and husband drives to nearest vet, about 10 miles away as the crow flies (or the donkey cart walks).
We get to vet's office and get the older vet. A nice, white haired gentleman who is willing to work with cats, but is more at home with cows, sheep and horses. Still, he was able to look at the ear and declare,
"you know, they usually just don't get this bad, I'm not sure why this one did?"
I held my breath and managed not to say something very hip and Californian like,
"elementary my Dear Watson" or "Thanks for a brilliant diagnosis."
No, instead I calmly asked what we should do next and the vet mumbled something about steroids and other stuff before saying, "but this case is so serious we need to operate tomorrow morning."
I realize at this point that despite the vet's laid back manner, come to think of it he is always laid back, even when wrestling with a reluctant horse, that our cat really is sick. Tomorrow is Saturday and this is rural Ireland. Vet's almost never do small animal surgery on Saturday morning unless its an emergency. They take turns doing house calls for large animal emergencies on the weekends. But as recently as five years ago, we had another vet (who we no longer use much) whose back up partner refused to come out to the house on a Sunday when one of pedigreed cats was having a difficult labor. Despite the fact that he was told the cat was in deep distress from a kitten stuck in her birth canal, the guy just couldn't believe that someone would call a vet about a sick cat on a weekend. We found another vet to come in time and save both pedigreed mother and kitten. But since then I've not expected much in the way of weekend veterinary care. But times it seems, are a-changing....
So we make arrangements for 9am tomorrow morning and get ready to leave. The vet, used to elderly farmers and housewives keeps repeating to make sure we don't feed or water the cat tonight. I politely ignore the repeats of instructions; I've spent a lot of time talking to the young women who is their vet technician over the years. She has explained that one of their worst clinic problems is that fact that many of the older people just don't understand that Fido or Fluffy really must have his/her food removed before an operation. Unlike the US, most vets offices here in the country side do not have overnight facilities for keeping animals. In fact, until recently, our vet's office only had one small cage for any animal. Most animals recovering from surgery had to be placed in their travel carriers. I was delighted this time to discover a wall of new and various sized cages. Which lets a sick or recovering animal walk about and stand up.
So, anyway, we took the kitty home pretty uneventfully and removed his food and water dish around midnight. Next morning, we get up and deposit cat with the vet. This time traveling with another cat carrier, one that has locks on that work. Cat spends entire car ride trying to move the latches. It would be funnier to watch if we hadn't noticed his normally placid brain seeming to work out how to move them. Thankfully, he did not have time to accomplish this before we got to the vet. Where Thor was placed in a shinny new cage.
Late afternoon, we go to pick up very unhappy and pathetic looking kitty. The vet tech is there and she explains that the cat will need an Elizabethan Collar for at least 10 days. And this time its going to be a professional plastic one; not a wimpy card board one. Cat must have a pill each day and his ear washed as well. And oh, we did realize we would have to er...a...help kitty with his "sanitary needs?" didn't we...
Oh joy, oh rapture! I now have an unhappy cat, with stitches in his ear and a plastic collar that keeps him from cleaning himself. Not to mention he can barely eat food off a flat plate and has trouble using his water dish. Cat informs me in no uncertain terms, that while Queen Elizabeth may have loved the high collar fashion look; a proper Norwegian Forest Cat: IS NOT AMUSED!
In fact, he is so not amused that he has already managed to take off the "professional" collar at least once so far and is amusing himself by banging his head repeatedly against various bedroom objects. When he is not scratching at the collar itself...I never realized just how much noise cat claws can make on plastic...especially at 3am...Put the cat in another room? Not possible at the moment...his friends are already back on in an outbuilding, since he can't be with them for at least 10 days. So that leaves us Thor in the bedroom, with me. Sulking and staring at me from various corners. I know what he is thinking, he is thinking up ways to get out of this thing. Or if that doesn't work, ways to humiliate me in a similar manner. Objects have begun to fall down from shelves unassisted by human hands. He knows where I sleep and small, sharp, nips have been received on my body in delicate places. Nips that take place in the dark, set there by unseen, tiny teeth. And if these fail to get my attention, there is always the ultimate cat statement, which can be lovingly deposited in my shoe...
I think its going to be a long week and a half until the Elizabethan Collar comes off..t minus 9 days and counting..
Disaster Cat...in need of sleep at Kilmurry
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