by Peg Kehret
Two months after losing Molly, I offered to take a foster cat from the Seattle/King County Humane Society. I met with Katreva, the foster cat coordinator, who asked if I’d be willing to take Mia, age thirteen, who had been surrendered to the shelter six months earlier. The first foster family who took Mia returned her for urinating outside the litter box.
I remembered that as Molly got older, she sometimes stood too close to the side of the litter box and urinated over the edge. I had solved the problem by covering thin sheets of wood with foil and sticking them in the litter to make tall edges on three sides of the box.
I decided Mia deserved a second chance, so I brought her home. It’s a ninety-minute drive. Mia complained loudly and peed in the carrier, but as soon as I opened the carrier in the cat room, she began to purr.
Her coat looked dull so I decided to brush her. I discovered that her rear end was dirty, with clumps of dried feces hanging in the fur. As I held her still with one hand and tried to clean her with wet paper towels, she bit me, breaking the skin on my thumb. It wasn’t a deep bite but it drew blood. Remembering the terrible infection I got after Gus bit me, I doused my thumb with antiseptic, took extra vitamin C, and decided Mia would have to stay dirty until I had someone to hold her while I cleaned her filthy fur.
If I had not known that Mia was spayed, I would have thought she was about to deliver kittens. Her belly appeared bloated, giving her a pear shape. She loved to be petted, but not on her big stomach, and I noticed she eased her bulk down slowly when she lay down. When I had tried to clean her, I’d held her tightly around her stomach, which is probably why she nipped me.
I noticed, too, that she drank a lot of water and urinated more than is normal. Then I found tapeworm segments in the dried feces. I made an appointment to take her back to the Humane Society for a veterinary check.
When I e-mailed to make the vet appointment, I made the mistake of saying that Mia had bitten me. This required filing a bite report and going on a ten-day rabies watch. During that time, Mia would be taken off the website, which showcased adoptable cats. I knew Mia was not a vicious cat; there had been a good reason why she nipped me, but I filled out the report and turned it in. By the time the report was filed, the bite was completely healed with no problems.
Heidi came to help me clean Mia. She took one look at Mia’s dirty rear end and announced, “Cat burrito!” She wrapped Mia tightly in a towel, with only her eyes and nose uncovered. My job was to hold Mia’s head still while Heidi used her clippers to shave the fur under Mia’s tail.
Wrapped like a burrito, Mia screeched her displeasure while I held on as hard as I could. It didn’t take long, and Mia forgave us as soon as we let her loose.
On the day of her vet appointment, the long drive to the shelter was just as bad as it had been when I brought Mia home, only this time we had to go both directions on the same day. She peed in the carrier on the way in and pooped on the way home. She yowled the whole time. I felt terrible to put her through such an ordeal but I knew she needed medical care.
I was disappointed when I was not allowed to accompany her to be examined. I had made a list of my concerns, so I gave that to Katreva, to show to the vet.
Half an hour later, Mia and I were back in the car with a case of diet cat food. She had been wormed. The vet had drawn blood and would let me know the results of the blood tests. Someone mentioned that an X-ray of Mia’s stomach might be useful, but the Humane Society clinic does not have an X-ray machine.
Mia and I were both exhausted when we finally got home, and I vowed I would not put her through the stress of that long trip again.
The blood tests showed some abnormalities. The most likely cause was feline infectious peritonitis (FIP), which is fatal to cats. I asked about the results of a urine test and was surprised to learn that no urine test had been done. They wanted to recheck Mia in a month.
The ten-days rabies watch had now ended, but Mia would stay off the adoptable list because of her health issues. Katreva said I could return her to the shelter if I wanted to, but there was no way I would have done that. I made sure FIP is not contagious to dogs, then said I would continue to foster Mia.
I immediately went online and learned all I could about FIP, including the fact that there is not a specific diagnostic test. When I read that one symptom is an accumulation of fluid in the abdomen, I felt sure that this was Mia’s problem.
She refused to eat the diet cat food and, given the results of her blood tests, I didn’t think her big stomach was caused by obesity anyway, so I began feeding her good quality canned food, which she loved. Kitty-num-num to the rescue once again!
By the time Mia had been here three weeks, she seemed to feel much better. She greeted me, purring loudly, whenever I entered the cat room. When I dangled a cat toy near her, she responded. Since she’d had no medical treatment, I assumed her improved condition was due to a stress-free environment.
Her large tummy still bothered her, though. She didn’t want me to brush her there, and she continued to ease herself down. She still drank way too much water, which made her urinate often. When she’d been here two months, I requested permission from the Humane Society to take her to my own vet, in order to avoid the long car ride.
I offered to pay the costs myself, but the Humane Society rules state that foster animals must be treated only at the shelter. While I understood the reason for that, I also knew it was not the best choice for Mia. Katreva suggested that I leave Mia at the shelter and they would arrange for an appointment with an outside vet who had more specialized equipment, but that would mean having Mia spend three or four days back at the shelter. I knew how much that would upset her.
I decided to break my own rule of never keeping a foster animal permanently. I applied to adopt Mia. We set a time for me to go in to talk to the adoption counselor, sign the paperwork, and get all of Mia’s medical records. I made an appointment with my own veterinarian for the day after that.
On the day of my appointment with the adoption counselor, my horoscope in the morning paper warned me to consider the financial consequences of what I planned to do that day. I laughed. This cat was thirteen years old; she had known health problems, and veterinary care is not cheap. It seemed highly likely that my horoscope that day was accurate.
As soon as the adoption papers were signed, I changed her name to Purrlie. Mia had never felt right for this cat, and she did not respond to it. Because of her wonderful ever-ready purr, Purrlie seemed exactly right.
Purrlie in her cat bed,
shortly after I adopted her
Along with all of her medical records, I was given the paperwork that had been filled in by the person who had surrendered her to the shelter. One question was where the cat lived—indoors, outdoors, or a combination. She had been kept outdoors, even though she had been declawed in front (something I would never do) and had no way to defend herself.
The question “Who was her veterinarian?” had been left blank. So had the question “What’s the best thing about this cat?” and “What’s her favorite toy or game?” No wonder she didn’t know her name. It didn’t seem as if anyone had ever cared about her.
The medical records from the Humane Society were impressive. I immediately saw why they had not done a urine test at her last checkup. They had already done two urine tests in the previous four months. Two weeks after coming to the shelter, she had been isolated because she had quit eating. A number of exams and tests at that time showed nothing wrong. When she was given tranquilizers, she began eating again. Clearly, this cat did not do well in stressful conditions. It explained why she had improved so much with me, even without medical help.
Purrlie had been with me for nine weeks when I signed the adoption papers. I was already fond of her, but I was unprepared for my excitement that afternoon. When Purrlie was a Humane Society foster cat, I felt compassion for her. Now that she was my cat, I loved her. I would care for her as well as I could for the rest of her life.
>
I adopted Purrlie on a Monday and took her to my own vet on Tuesday. She weighed thirteen pounds. Because my father was born on September thirteenth, my family always considered thirteen to be a lucky number. I decided at thirteen pounds and thirteen years old, Purrlie must be a lucky cat.
Adoption day
After reviewing all Purrlie’s records and examining her, Dr. Wood said the bloated stomach was not an accumulation of fluid, and she did not think Purrlie had FIP. She said some of the test results might have been caused by extreme stress. My hopes began to rise.
Dr. Wood took two X-rays of Purrlie’s stomach, one from the side and one from the top. Both showed what looked like a large tumor. A new worry! We discussed the possibility of surgery, and Dr. Wood said she’d like to have an ultrasound first, to know exactly what we were dealing with. She said it would avoid what she called “peek and shriek surgery,” where she might open up the stomach to remove the tumor only to discover that the tumor was entwined in vital organs or that there was some other reason why it could not be taken out.
A radiologist would bring the ultrasound equipment to the clinic. Usually, I was told, it takes a week or two to set up an appointment. I gave permission to do this and said I’d be available anytime the radiologist could come.
Meanwhile, I was dealing with a health problem of my own. My dentist had been concerned about a growth in my mouth and referred me to an oral surgeon. The surgeon said the growth was in an unusual place, and not a typical size. He recommended removing it and having a biopsy done. Not being eager to have oral surgery, I asked what the risks were if I decided to wait a while. I was told that if the growth was cancerous, and I didn’t remove it, the cancer could spread before I had any further symptoms.
My oral surgery was scheduled on Wednesday, the day after Purrlie’s appointment with Dr. Wood. Late Tuesday afternoon Dr. Wood’s office called to say the radiologist could do Purrlie’s ultrasound on Thursday morning. “This Thursday?” I asked. “The day after tomorrow?”
Yes, Purrlie’s ultrasound would be the morning after my surgery. Purrlie shouldn’t eat after seven the night before, and should be at the clinic at eight A.M.
I knew I’d still be woozy and on pain pills Thursday morning and shouldn’t drive. My neighbor Vicki agreed to help me out.
I awoke with a sore mouth, aching jaw, and no energy. I longed to stay in my bathrobe and read all day. Instead, I showered, dressed, and got the cat carrier ready to transport Purrlie to the clinic. She was hungry and being stuffed into the carrier did not improve her outlook. It’s a good thing Vicki was there to help and to lift the carrier into her car.
While Purrlie was sedated, had her tummy shaved, had the ultrasound, and recovered from the anesthetic, I got the house ready for her to become a member of the family.
Until then I had kept Purrlie in my separate foster cat room. Although I visited her there often, I always felt bad leaving her out there alone, rather than letting her have the run of the house. I didn’t want to make Lucy adjust to a new cat if that cat wasn’t going to stay permanently. Now that Purrlie was officially mine, she could be a house cat.
I put a fresh litter box where Molly’s used to be, brought the big cat tree back into the living room so Purrlie could be up high where she’d feel secure, and arranged a food station on top of the clothes dryer, where Lucy couldn’t get at it.
Late that morning, Dr. Wood called with good news. Purrlie did not have a tumor after all! She had a thick layer of falciform fat in her abdomen. There’s no treatment for this, but it also won’t kill her. Purrlie will always have a huge tummy and probably won’t ever want to be touched there, but it will not prevent her from living out a normal life span.
I had adopted Purrlie believing she had FIP, a fatal disease. The next day I was told she didn’t have FIP but she did have a large tumor. Now I suddenly had a cat with no FIP, and no tumor, either. I could hardly believe it.
There was still the problem of excessive thirst and urination, which may indicate diabetes. We started antibiotics for a suspected respiratory infection, but Dr. Wood agreed we could wait a while to retest Purrlie’s urine since the Humane Society had already done that twice. Right then both Purrlie and I needed a few weeks with no doctor visits.
I could hardly wait for Purrlie to become a true house cat and companion. However, Purrlie had other ideas, mainly because she didn’t like Lucy. She must have had a problem with a dog sometime in the past. I had already let them see each other through the baby gate many times, so I didn’t anticipate this difficulty.
Lucy didn’t bark at Purrlie or chase her, but she was curious and kept trying to get a closer look. Whenever Lucy approached her, Purrlie growled. Since Purrlie outweighed Lucy by three pounds, Lucy wisely heeded Purrlie’s warnings and stayed out of reach.
That evening I carried Purrlie into the living room and put her on the cat tree. Lucy couldn’t get to her there and Purrlie could see the entire living area as well as a bird feeder outside the window. Purrlie wanted no part of it. She hissed, hopped down, and scurried back to her own space.
The next day I carried her into my bedroom, which is closer to the cat room, and put her on my bed. Same result: she hissed and ran back to the cat room.
I remembered how relieved Purrlie had been to leave her cage at the shelter and find herself in my foster cat room, where it was quiet. She had been happy there for over two months; I could understand why she wasn’t in any hurry to leave.
One reason I’ve always liked cats is their independent spirit. A dog adopted from a shelter after spending six months there would be so grateful he’d follow me around for the rest of his life. Not Purrlie.
I decided this transition was going to work only if I let Purrlie make the choice, so I simply left the door between the cat room and the rest of the house open and hoped she would gradually explore the house and feel comfortable there. Eventually she did.
Two weeks after her adoption, I took her back to the vet because of the excessive thirst. This time another urine test showed that Purrlie was borderline diabetic. She went on a special food for diabetic cats. Dr. Wood gave me lessons in how to give insulin injections. My pet sitter, Karrie, offered to go with me and learn, too, so that when I was away she could take care of Purrlie.
As I handed the pharmacist my credit card for the insulin, syringes, and urine test strips, I calculated what I’d already spent on X-rays, an ultrasound, prescription food, and antibiotics. The Seattle/King County Humane Society’s adoption fee for cats three years or older is just twenty-five dollars. Even so, Purrlie had now passed Gus for the Most Expensive Stray Cat honors.
The shots were not as difficult as I anticipated and Purrlie didn’t seem to mind them. They needed to be given twelve hours apart, which required schedule juggling some days, but it was manageable.
After a month on the insulin, Purrlie’s symptoms were unchanged. More testing showed she was still borderline diabetic. Dr. Wood now suspected that Purrlie had Cushing’s disease, which is rare in cats. I read the list of symptoms and Purrlie had all of them. We decided to stop the insulin for two weeks, during which I would test Purrlie’s urine each day with strips that measured blood glucose. Her glucose remained negative, so we stopped the insulin injections permanently.
Unfortunately there is no good treatment for Cushing’s disease, which is usually caused by a tumor on the pituitary or adrenal gland. Thirty percent of cats who have surgery to remove a tumor die during the operation. By now Purrlie was almost fourteen years old; I was not going to put her through surgery.
The only available medication was seldom effective, and Purrlie had just endured a full month of twice-a-day antibiotic pills. She was a master at eating the tuna, cheese, Pill Pocket, or whatever else I used to disguise the pill—and leaving the pill untouched. All my life I’ve pilled a cat by crouching over her and squeezing her tightly between my knees while I opened her mouth with one hand and stuck the pill down with the other. This didn
’t work because of Purrlie’s tender tummy. Besides, any activity that requires getting down on the floor is now an ordeal for me because, due to my post-polio weakness, I can’t get up again.
After discussing the options with Dr. Wood, I decided not to treat Purrlie at all. I hope that her peaceful life and good nutrition will keep her comfortable and happy for a long time. So far, it seems to be working. She spends most of her time in the house now, tolerates Lucy as long as Lucy doesn’t get too close, and purrs loudly when she’s petted. She watches the birds and squirrels and hangs around the kitchen when I cook.
Unwanted by her first owners, Purrlie waited at the Humane Society for six months, but nobody chose her. Then her multiple health problems caused her to be labeled unadoptable. Now she has a loving permanent home where she lives a cat’s dream life. She is even a Cover Cat! Yes, Purrlie is the cat I’m holding in the photograph on this book’s cover. She purred while our picture was taken.
Many Surprises
Some people object to calling an animal friend a pet. They think the word is demeaning and encourage us to say “companion animal” instead. While the animals with whom I live are certainly my dear companions, I also refer to them as my pets. To me, it is a loving word that means I have chosen those animals to share my life and am committed to caring for them as long as they live.
With one exception, every pet I ever had was a rescued animal. The exception was George, the cairn mix who was the unplanned purchase that Carl didn’t know about until after I did it.
I bought George at a pet shop. At the time, like most people who buy puppies at a pet store, I had never heard of puppy mills and had no idea that my purchase might be contributing to animal cruelty. If I had, I would have explained to my kids that puppies sold in pet stores often come from greedy breeders who mistreat the dogs, keep them in filthy cages, and use them only to reproduce as quickly as possible. Then I would have gone to a shelter to adopt a dog.
