good cat bad cat

01-05-00

Work left me in a scuzzy mood today, and not just because of the vast quantities of puppy shit. The day after my day off really sucks, because nobody does my job while I'm gone. Someone always lets the dogs out to poop, and if a bath needs doing they'll do it, but the cleaning is my problem. It was such a problem this morning that I actually considered going in on Tuesday afternoons just to save myself the hassle of Wednesday mornings. I came to my senses, of course.

For some reason, people are adopting pets left and right. Yesterday the doctor did over a dozen surgeries, and today he had a list of fifteen when I left. Do lots of people adopt right after the holidays? I can't think of any reason why. I know I waited till after the holiday to get Julia's shots updated, because of money. Is that why?

All those animals make a mess of the place. The puppies from the shelter can't go out in the yard, so they do their going-out business right in their cages. And most of them have "hooks and rounds," in other words, worms. Or worse. Puppy shit smells horrid when it's full of worms.

My problem is not that they shit. I mean, I wish they wouldn't, but I realize that's a lot to ask. My problem is that they shit on my day off, and nobody cleans it up. Sherrie moves the dogs to different cages until the floor of every cage is coated with brown, lumpy dog shit, or worse. (Worse=vomit.) Whatever's there dries and hardens overnight, so it takes me hours—really—to scrape all that off of the cage floors in the morning. It's extremely annoying.

And nobody does dishes or laundry while I'm gone, so the laundry piles up in one corner and begins to reek of ammonia. The dishes are dirty, so if there are lots of animals (like right now,) I have towash dishes before I can feed anybody or change litter trays. And after I change the litter trays, I have to wash the second round of dirty ones.

Those are just the typical Wednesday yummies. Today was fraught with a whole 'nother type of bleh. It's a longish background, so sit back.

Friday. A woman brought in a four-or-five-month-old cat that she found wandering near her house. She wanted us to bathe it and maybe take care of its fleas and earmites. I bathed her and dribbled some Advantage flea goo between her shoulderblades, and picked off as many fleas as I could find. I spent an hour combing fleas off of that cat. She was a gorgeous, all-white, longhaired cat with the warmest blue eyes I've seen. Well, she would have been gorgeous, if she hadn't been rolling around in the Georgian red clay for a few weeks. That stuff stains animals' fur until we can't quite tell what color some of the dogs are supposed to be. "Her chart says blonde, but not THAT blonde!"

We sent her back with the nice lady, who was really only trying to find a good home for the cat. The woman already had three cats of her own. Jennifer mentioned that she sort of wanted a second cat to play with her first one, and that she'd ask her mom about it.

Monday morning, the kitty's back, named Brittany, and Jennifer's name is at the top of the chart. Yay! But Brittany's not looking so good. Dr. Figaro decided to wait on the spaying, because it's not clear whether the cat's malnourished or sick. But, yay!

This morning, Jennifer's mother called. Apparently, Jen went home last night and bawled, because Brittany is so sick and, oh, I'm sure she did the whole seventeen-year-old overreacting thing. Anyway, her momma called and told us to put the cat to sleep, and do it before noon, because that's when Jennifer's coming by with a blank check.

Huh? All of us were a bit puzzled. We haven't done any tests on the cat yet, except for a feline leukemia test that came back negative. Not the fecal, the heartworm, we don't even know for sure that there's anything wrong with Brittany. She's been sort of flaccid and dull, but that's it. Today, of course, I went in the cat ward and Brittany was sitting at the front of her cage, mewing emphatically and bossily. Crossly. She'd finished all of her food and she wanted more, dammit! She stalked around her cage while I changed her litter and fed her, then she chowed down the minute I latched the door.

I told the vet that the cat seemed better. He was a little dismayed that we'd been asked to put the cat down, but then he started justifying it. Damn him. "Oh, well, if the cat's eating but she's still that skinny...." It sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

I felt helpless. I tried three times to explain how much better she looked, but everyone sort of shrugged and indicated there wasn't much we could do. And there's not. I can't afford to pay for the tests myself, and if we dumped Brittany at the shelter she'd end up back with us if someone tried to adopt her. But I know someone would adopt her! She's beautiful.

I hate the "What can you do?" attitude that people in animal care/rescue professions have to have. There's not enough money to fix everybody, so you have to focus on the wellest ones. That percentage of success would be unacceptable if we were dealing with humans. I think most vets and shelter workers would do everything they could, if they could. But with so many deaths, and so many hopeless situations, you have to be too strong. You have to be an adult. I can't take it—I always knew it happened, but I didn't think about it. Yeah—that attitude that everyone disdains, right? Don't think about it. Well, hell, if I think about it, then I can't deal with it at all. It takes a colder, more callous person than me to take care of sick animals.

I left at one pm and they still hadn't done it. I wonder if she'll be there tomorrow.

Want a good cat story? I took a bath tonight to try out my new buy-one-get-one-free bath bubbles from you-know-where. (Bath and Bodyworks, of course.) Left the door open, and who should saunter in but the Demon Cat himself, Mr. Fleck. With his tail rattlesnaking quizzically, he pranced back and forth on the edge of the tub, smacking his lips on the banana-melony bubbles. Eventually, he just couldn't stand the temptation, and he stepped out onto my chest, then tiptoed across to the skinny little bit of tub on the other side.

There he was marooned. The ledge was too narrow for him to turn around or back up. He tapped the water's surface with one paw and shuddered his paw violently, spattering the pages of my book with lukewarm bathwater. Eventually he worked up the balls (not that he has any balls) to jump over my knees and land on the opposite side of the tub. He slipped on a blob of glycerin soap and one back paw splopped ungracefully into the water before he skittered out of the bathroom to rub himself dry on my green wool sweater.

Right this minute Fleck is taking orders from Julia—he's probably standing in one of the open kitchen drawers, diving headfirst into the trash can, and pulling out tasty morsels with his teeth. I just caught the two of them happily licking, licking, licking at a saucy tamale wrapper that I know I'd thrown away.

Two nights ago, John had to get up around 5 am because Julie and Fleck were right at the end of the bed, jumping up and down on a crunchy-foil bag full of cat treats. John, in his sleepy stupor, put the bag up on the top shelf of the closet. All day Fleckley spent perched on the hamper, gopher-stanced, sniffing and spying for a way to get up there and get the damn treats. Julia lay floppy on the floor, waiting for Fleck to drop the booty down to her. The only time those two cats get along is when they're conspiring to get more food.