We Jowerses have two cats. One is Ivory, a wide-bottomed white cat with less brains than a goldfish. Ivory loves daughter Jess and wife Brenda, but her only contact with me is rubbing up against my legs when I’m in the bathroom.
Our other cat is Sassy, a certified Bengal designer cat, which I bought from an Appalachian poodle groomer three and a half years ago. Cat Sassy has always been a little neurotic. She spent her first three days in the Jowers house hiding in the attic insulation. Since then, she’s warmed up to me, but she doesn’t have much to do with the Jowers females.
Simply put, both Jowers cats are perfectly adequate, but neither has been the kind of pet you’d kill or die for. As pet attachments go, I’d say we’ve been attached to these cats somewhere between the hamster and parakeet level. Still, if you’re a Jowers cat, it’s a pretty good life. You get all your shots, you get a perch at the window, you get brand-name cat food and a clean litter box. The rest is up to you.
In recent months, the Jowers cats’ contribution to the household has been to sneak out the back door while we humans are struggling to get the garbage bags outside. We know, we know—it’s dangerous out there, what with all the reckless drivers, killer dogs, and feral children running around. But the Jowers cats just escape into our fenced backyard, chase bugs, and come stick their noses up against the back window when they want to come in. No harm, no foul.
Well, that was the way it went up until six weeks ago. That’s when the Jowers humans went to Bluff City, Tenn., for daughter Jess’ Little League softball tournament. Now, before I say more about the cats, let me share this: If your daughter plays Little League softball, if she makes it to the state tournament, and the tournament is in Bluff City, do not go. The tournament organizers change the schedule on the fly to keep you trapped in Bluff City. (Bluff City, get it?) The ball field is a worse mess than your average goat pen—full of lumps, bumps, clods, and knee-high grass. The bleachers are uncomfortable, and the bathrooms are filthy. Come game time, the umpires show up with their shirts unbuttoned to the navel. Bluff City is the deepest circle of Youth Sports Hell.
Back to the cats: When we were serving our sentence in Bluff City, cat Sassy escaped to the backyard and decided to vault the 6-foot fence. She caught her right rear foot between the fence boards and couldn’t get it loose. So she dangled, probably overnight. Kindly neighbor Ellen found Sassy and took her to the vet. The foot was a mess. One bone was broken, and the ankle was swollen to about six times its normal size. All this damage bought cat Sassy a whole lot of pain medication and a week in the cat hospital. This cost about 300 bucks.
I’ve got to tell you: I’m serious about taking care of the creatures that depend on me, but I’ve got my limits. If some evil cat killer had broken into the house and grabbed Sassy, dangled her over a blender, and threatened to drop her in if I didn’t hand over $300, I would’ve asked for a night to sleep on it. If he’d asked for more than that, I would’ve just averted my eyes.
Even so, we cheerfully paid the vet bill and took Sassy home. Two days later, Sassy started trying to gnaw off her damaged foot. I took her back to the vet. “There’s dead tissue there,” the vet said. “She’s trying to do the natural thing.”
“Well,” I replied, “if the foot’s coming off, I’d rather y’all do it with the surgical instruments.” The vet told me the options: 1. Put Sassy back in the hospital and heroically try to save the foot; 2. Surgically remove the whole leg; or 3. Send Sassy to cat heaven.
I told ’em to try to save the foot. And bless their cat-curing hearts, it looks like they have. After weeks of hydrotherapy, antibiotics, and a skin graft, it looks like cat Sassy will not be reduced to a tripod. She will, however, have a patch on her leg where the stripes run the wrong way and the fur points up instead of down. Call me weird, but I think I’ll enjoy that.
That cat owes me, big-time. I could’ve bought a brand-new pitching machine for what it cost to keep her four-footed. Somehow, I think she knows it. Since her injury, cat Sassy has been transformed. She’s gone from a scaredy cat who wouldn’t let anybody pick her up to a cuddly, sit-on-your-lap cat who likes nothing better than to get her ears rubbed. Finally, she is earning her cat keep.
This tells me two things: There’s nothing like a brush with death to make a creature appreciate a good rubbing, and there’s just no predicting the long-term effects of anesthesia.
Well, OK, it tells me one other thing: When it comes to a hurt cat, I’m not quite the hard-ass I thought I was.
Visit Walter Jowers’ Web site at http://www.nashvillescene.com/~housesense, or e-mail him at walter.jowers@nashville.com.
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