No Rest for the Wicked

A couple Thursdays ago I was feeling pretty ooky at work, and the more I contemplated going home early to rest, the sweeter the idea became. I'm sure that has something to do with my general job dissatisfaction as well, but we've been over that bit before. I finally decided to cut the day in half, and go home at lunch, take a nap, and drink copious amounts of orange juice.

It was a particularly snowy day, even for Montana, and as I pulled into our apartment's parking lot, and I neared our covered parking, I thought to myself, "Geez, that giant white work van in the space next to us didn't give us much room to park." I continued my slow 90 degree turn into my space, like I have a thousand times before.

Yet, as I continued to turn into the space, the car stopped turning and began sliding....right for the giant van. Uh oh.

*BLAM* The impact into the van's front bumper (it was backed in to the space), surprised me, and seemed to make an explosive noise. My little Honda bounced right off of it and quivered. I have never hit another car in my life...well, except for some bumper nudges when parallel parking on snowy hills in Madison, and I was shocked and dismayed. I got out of the car and went to inspect the van. I didn't see any damage, not even a smudge on the bumper. Still, the noise and the very open parking lot made me think I'd probably been witnessed. Besides, leaving a note just seemed like the right thing to do - I'd be super pissed if someone banged my car and did it to me. So, I finished parking, tore off a piece of paper and wrote a carefully-worded note, and carefully placed it on the windshield.

As I was doing this, I heard a scream. For a split second my thoughts were, "OMG, someone saw me hit the car and is actually screaming?" I turned in its direction and couldn't see a soul. Then I heard it again, quieter, but not repeating itself, in a voice so hoarse you could almost feel its pain. Then I saw it.

Looking down, several feet away, was a tiny, grey cat. It was crying for all it was worth, and of course, I instantly melted into a pile of goo. I knelt down and held out a hand, and slowly, the cat came forward, crying the whole way. When it got to me, I stroked it, only to find its coat soaking wet and freezing. The thing was literally fur and bones, the body hard and bumpy and all edges. Taking a chance, I picked it up, and it nestled against me, continuing to cry. Oh god!

As I turned toward the house, Beau was standing up on the landing looking down at me. "What have you got there?" he said with both curiosity and wariness. "A caaat," I said in an almost little girl voice. Beau didn't even bother to protest, but the look on his face said it all.

Inside, I made a beeline for the bathroom to quarantine the cat. I've had plenty of experience with stray cats infecting my own cats (The "black parasite" in Thailand which killed my two kittens and nearly killed Sabina, and the dreaded Feline Leukemia which ran rampant). Fergus was very curious about our new visitor. Sabina, as usual, was completely disgusted.

I went and got two shallow bowls, one filled with water, the other with "kitty crack" (that wet food that comes in the shiny pouches that my cats always whore themselves for). I placed both dishes down on the bathroom floor, and took a seat there myself. The cat nearly lunged for the water bowl and began drinking ...and drinking....and drinking, while I attempted to towel it dry and warm it up. It drank for 10 full minutes, and though I prodded it, it completely ignored the cat food, to my astonishment. All it wanted to do was drink, and me thinking it was probably NOT okay to let it drink 3 bowls of water, finally pulled it away.

It was a sweet cat, tiny and grey with two white paws and Siamese-looking (narrow and slightly crossed) eyes. Calling the local Humane Society, they said they couldn't come to pick it up (damn), but that I would have to bring it in. This was not a HUGE deal, but I had come home because I felt sick and the Humane Society was all the way across town and halfway to the next one. Hrm, okay.

After a little more TLC, the cat loaded in one of my carriers, I took it back outside and into the car. I had the heat way up and didn't play the radio (surprisingly difficult for me), in attempts to keep things calm. It did indeed stay very calm and eventually crawled out of the carrier, into the back seat, and began to sleep.

At the Humane Society, the ground covered in fresh snow, I attempted to drive up to its front doors, which involved a sharp, short hill. The Honda got about halfway up before it decided it wasn't worth it. I felt a quick lightning bolt of panic, then relaxed, and let the car basically slide backwards down the hill, where, slipping and sliding, I found a snow-filled space. Trying to cover the kitty from the sleet and snow, I trudged up the hill myself, and entered the building.

The process went fine, though I admit feeling strangely uncomfortable, like when you can tell a security guard in a store is watching you even though you have no intention of stealing anything. You get that paranoid, guilty feeling. They confirmed it was a Siamese cross, and were nice enough though to let me come into the exam room with the vet, who told me it was a girl, ahhhh. (I christened her "Sophie" in my head). I was in for a couple of shocks when he said, "This cat is about five years old." FIVE? This tiny thing? And then next when he weighed her and she only came up to 4.8lbs! Sabina, who is a fairly petite cat, is usually about 9lbs! Poor thing!

They told me they had a lot of success with rehabilitating starved cats and that she'd probably be fine. I asked if they called me, but they basically said I should call them. I went and visited all the other cats and dogs in the place, and lost my heart to the sweetest English Setter named "Ben," before tearing myself away and leaving for home.

I just visited their webpage, but no sign of Sophie yet. She's probably still getting better. I hope.