Poor kitten.
Tamar was doing pretty well. The dogs were leaving her alone. She’d turned from a feral, spitting, hissing thing we’d brought home from Pueblo to someone who loved everyone.
But especially me.
She would come when I called her.
Here’s a picture of her when Ben and Amanda came to visit. “Come over here!” I said, and she meowed and came running, having to navigate the rim of the little sheep pen to get to me. I rewarded her with some stroking and then handed her to Amanda. As you can see, Tamar is a little unsure about being held by someone she didn’t know but willing to go along with it. A couple weeks before, she’d spent most of her time being held by Eddy, who is two. Eddy carried her around the house calling her his “pwincess.” She would yowl but her claws never came out.
A week ago Kitty, the Blue Heeler, decided to play catch with Tamar, with Tamar as the ball. I think it broke her back.
Kittens are free, when you can get them, so taking her to the vet wasn’t an option, since as Michele, my boss, says, “The vet will just tell us how much it will cost to put her down.”
So we put her in a box with some towels. She went to sleep and slept and slept.
She purrs constantly, not because she’s content but because she’s badly injured, an odd thing cats do.
On Tuesday she kept getting out of the box and trying to crawl away, but she has to pull herself along with her front legs. She can move her back legs, but can’t make them work. Ben and Amanda and I stuck around at the Bremers house so we could eat pizza with Michele’s sister Adrienne and watch Lieberman at the RNC. The kitten would only stop panicking and trying to get out of the box if I held her in my lap, so that’s where she spent the evening. If I shifted, her eyes would fly open, she’d dig her front claws into my left thigh, and try to get away from whatever it was that was terrifying her. But when I settled her down in my lap again, she’d curl up as best she could and go back to sleep. When we left, she was content in her box again.
The rest of the week she didn’t try to get out of the box. She just wanted to sleep. I put her in a sun beam when there was sun. Otherwise I kept her box by my desk.
One of the volunteers force fed her yogurt on Wednesday. And Thursday I force fed her a little skim milk. She would swallow and lick if you poured it into the side of her mouth, but she didn’t want it voluntarily.
I wonder if that’s her way of trying to die.
I soaked some dog food in water on Friday and forced her to swallow a good bit of that. I gave her a sponge bath because she’s too weak to clean herself.
But she just seems to be getting weaker. Her third eyelid doesn’t close, a sign of an injured cat. She picks her head up and can’t keep it up, just wobbling from side to side. She can’t focus her eyeballs either.
But she was mewing at me on Friday. I didn’t know what she wanted, so I forced some more crumb-filled water down her.
I didn’t go into work today, so I’ll find out tomorrow if she’s dead. I have a feeling she will be.
On Friday Michele called someone who was rumored to have some kittens available.
Alas, that is the life of the barn cat. They’re not pets. They’re utilitarian.
I keep dreaming about her, though. Last week I dreamed I got her to eat something. But night before last I dreamed she died.
Cats often wander off to die, but she dragged herself up to Michele on Tuesday morning. She’s young and could recover. Cats are resilient. Nine lives, all that.
She’s in pain, though. I suppose the humane thing would be go take her box out back and carefully aim the .22 at her head.
But none of us can seem to bring ourselves to do it.
I’ll find out tomorrow morning if my first task of the morning will be to take out the box by my desk.
Just remember, I tell myself. Kittens are free.
