PLEASE PRAY FOR ZOEY.
Not accustomed to lots of hands-on, I completely flipped the switch the moment a traumatized Zoey entered my life. I can truly say she has made me a better person. Such a small cat but the only way they could get her to me was in a critters’ cage. She had wedged herself in the nether region of a pool table to avoid capture. A robust eater, food was placed inside the trap and well, Zoey doesn’t turn down a meal unless she’s sick like now. Anyway, she zoomed straight under the sofa the second she was released. She stayed there for hours. The next day she joined the other two in what was once my office/guest room.
She’s next to me on the bed as I type this. Her empty belly just screeched loud enough to beat the band, as one of the local weather guys sometime says during a downpour. The only thing she has eaten in the last couple of days is grass, which she promptly threw up.
Last year round about this same time she started hobbling on three legs. Her owner came and took her to the vet. The vet told us she had bad teeth and was overweight but was otherwise healthy. I wondered how a cat that threw up every other day could possibly be healthy. But I kept mum because her owner was footing the vet bill. I was and am the acolyte charged with Zoey’s upkeep and a fellow named Tigger.
What was supposed to be a one month stay is now going into its third year. It’s been one heck of a roller coaster ride dealing with not only Zoey, but Tigger and the former Cloey (daughter to Zoey), as well. We lost Cloey right out the gate. An infection had spread throughout her reproductive organs and her owner had her euthanized. Fearing Zoey might suffer a similar faith, I sometime put off telling Zoey’s owner about her ailments. Usually she stays close to me when she’s sick, somehow still purring like a motor. If she’s in pain, she doesn’t show it.
My son, Zeke, says he doesn’t know how she’s still alive. He’s the one constantly cleaning up all the vomit. Admittedly, he does all the heavy lifting when it comes to cleaning up after the two. All I do is feed them occasionally and spoil them rotten. So, when Zoey is sick as she is now, I feel I’m the only one emotionally vested. I have only myself to blame.
Normally I’m a rather hands-off person. But with Zoey, I turned into Mother Theresa. The story was she’d been thrown out of a moving vehicle. God only knows what cruelties she’d suffered prior to that. Zoey was terrified of humans and rightly so. Tired of her hiding under the bed all day and running away from us all the time, I made it my mission to socialize her. Before the end of the first year my work was done.
Zeke, on the other hand, remained and still remains pretty aloof with the cats although he does allow Tigger to spend time in his room. If only I’d followed his example I wouldn’t have had and continue to have so many sleepless nights.
Zeke’s door just opened. Zoey looks at me with those sad kiwi eyes flecked with brown spots from her constantly throwing up. She threw up the grass I let her out to eat this morning. She’s an indoor cat but I let her out to graze on the grass hoping it might fix what’s ailing her. Yesterday after eating her fill she ran under the barn when I called her to come in. This morning she came right on back in and promptly threw up on the kitchen floor. Phlegm, grass, and a sour odor. I wiped it up with paper towels and followed up with a wet sponge.
Good thing she was fat. I said was because in just a matter of days Zoey’s just a former shell of herself. The furry flesh of her undercarriage still dangles as she rubs herself against my legs. Her purrs are comforting and is all that’s keeping me from crying. This little cat has been through hell and back again. If she’s in pain, she’s right on purring and bearing it. She is now nearly two hours behind the closed door in what was once my office/guest room. Zeke puts them in at night just like they’re children.
My head is filled with prayers for Zoey. I’m nearly two hours late with my insulin injection. I dial up the appropriate dose. The fine fine needle sinks into the flesh of my belly. I thumb down the device as though it’s a fountain pen, thinking about Zoey as it clicks backward to zero. Thinking about Zoey keeps me from focusing on myself. I know what it’s like to go to sleep only to wake up days later.
Zoey has an appointment with the vet on Monday. In the meanwhile I keep her in my prayers. If you stumble across this blog, please pray for Zoey. I will return later with an update.