I did not need or want another cat. He showed up one day and despite the Queen's efforts to "off with his head", so to speak, he stayed. The Queen, if you are not familiar, is Pussy Cat, the 15 plus year old matriarch of the yard.
Despite tactics used only in extreme warfare, he held his ground, or higher ground, and would not go away. It took me about two weeks to even try to name him. He was just a scrawny yellow kitten, so that's is what I called him, Yellow. It didn't seem to fit his personality, so he has been dubbed Tigger.
Tigger has been here for about six months. The Queen doesn't like him any more now than she did when he first showed up, but since he is as big as she is now, she has quit trying to knock the snot out of him. She merely has to look in his direction and that is all it takes, Tigger is a true to life version of a "scardy cat".
The plan was to get him neutered, as soon as I could afford to do so. I am a huge advocate of spaying and neutering pets, but alas, several surrounding fellow citizens do not share this concept. I love cats, but when your feline, or felines, have 7 or so kittens, possibly times two, and you decide not to give them away or keep them fed, please reconsider the above advocacy, because I REALLY DIDN'T NEED ANOTHER CAT.
Since this past winter had some rather brutal weather and I cannot have a cat in the house due to my kids' allergies, I put the cats in my shop in the garage. It has a small heater that keeps my wood stains and finishes from freezing, so I thought that would be the humane thing to do. My husband would say I've ruined two perfectly good cats. Perhaps he is right. The Queen prefers the shop now, even when it's 60 degrees outside. I did remind him that one of them actually killed a mouse, so they haven't lost all their usefulness. I did not mention, though, the feathers I had to clean up the other day, since I had left the door open.
Tigger had his first cat fight a couple of weeks ago and ended up on the short end of the stick. His opponent was yet another un-neutered older cat and he inflicted several wounds on Tiggers' tail.
Naturally, these became infected. Then a couple of days later he began to sneeze, cough and his nose was running like a sieve. I had no choice, he had to go to the vet.
After making him an appointment I told Ms. Sassafrass what we would be doing the next day. She thought this would be quite an adventure and reminded her parents some 40 times that evening what the next days' agenda had in store.
The next day, I retrieved the small animal carrier, set it on the sidewalk and went to get Tigger. The plan was for him to ride in the carrier in the back seat with Sassafrass. His tail was very sore and so was his mood. I picked him up and gently carried him to the waiting box, he was not a happy camper. He growled and began to back peddle and when I tried to place him in the box it did not go as planned. He got away from me and took off through the yard.
Ms. Sassafrass and I decided to try plan B. She would hold the box upright, with the opening to the top and I would lower the cat into the box. This seemed like a good idea and when I was able to catch Tigger, I carried him by the scruff of the neck. This action put him in survival mode.
Tigger had never been to the vet before and the last time I had the carrier out for the Queen, he jumped right in it as soon as I had set it down. Twas not meant to be as easy this time. Usually, carrying a cat by the scruff of the neck renders them helpless.....um, not so much. He began to growl and writhe like a wild beast and as I approached the box I told Sassafrass to stand back, this wasn't going to be pretty.
It was much like trying to stick a cat in a bucket of water. He fought and clawed onto anything he could find. I finally managed to get him in the box and slam the gate shut just as claw bared paws came out through the small openings in the gate. Then, all Hell broke loose. Tigger went absolutely berserk in the box, he flopped and turned and banged himself up against the sides like a ball in a pin ball machine. The view from outside of the box was like looking at a Mexican jumping bean gone bad.
Ms. Sassafrass' eyes were as big as saucers and she said to me, "Whoa, Tigger weally don't like to go to the vets." I asked her if she would rather him ride in the front seat with me and she was all for that. I was really thinking it might be better to put him in the trunk.
Sassafrass was right, Tigger did not like to go to the vet. Trying to hold a terrified hurting cat on a stainless steel table also proved to be an interesting challenge. His claws sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard. I suggested that Sassafrass might want to go back out in the lobby because I had visions of Tigger getting loose and running straight up the walls, across the ceiling and ending up on top of someones' head. She agreed, went back out front and proceeded to tell the ladies at the desk that Tigger weally didn't like to be there.
One steroid shot, an antibiotic shot and $53 later, we arrived back home with a still angry cat. I set the carrier on the ground, opened the door and Tigger shot out of there like a bullet.
He is much better now and has yet another appointment to be nuetered, so he can meow on a higher note. The other night, I forgot to put him in the shop.......but I will wait to share that cataclysmic event in another blog.
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