Sometime in late June a cat showed up in my kitchen, a bag of bones full to bursting with kittens. She ate and disappeared for a couple of weeks, when she showed up again sans baby belly, but still skeletal. She stood at my feet and screamed like she was being skinned, until I managed to hit the right inflection trying to calm her. I meowed, she looked at me, stopped screaming, and tucked her head to be petted. That was the beginning of a saga that is still unfolding, and may well end with my first healthy euthanasia.
Mama Kitty had a huge problem: she was full of worms, and had severe enough cramps that I could hear the food passing through her from where I stood. The rumbling was awful, and she would eat and poop at almost the same time – runny, gooey, slimy poop that made me wretch, it reeked so badly. She pooped in the corners, under furniture, and in the food bowls. A litterbox didn’t solve the problem, so I finally took a chance on leaving her kittens to fend for themselves and hauled her to the vet. I knew the kittens were at least 4-5 weeks by that time, and the vet was ok with giving her meds for the worms. Back home we came.
A week later, she was still screaming, still bubbling internally, and still fouling my kitchen. She was also so full of milk she cried when she tried to lie down. She had obviously weaned the kittens, wherever they were, because she didn’t leave the house for 3 days. Her bottom was so raw she growled at herself when she tried to wash it. That particular story led my fellow church musicians to suggest I name her PooMa. They thought it was funny, hysterical even. I had to admit, the pun was awesome, but the reality made it less so.
Back to the vet, who found she had a parasite on TOP of still having worms, and suggested spaying her to eliminate the hormonal contribution to the mix.
Another week passed, and she was still pooping in my kitchen. I couldn’t keep up…she was pooping 8, 9, sometimes 10 times a day, and I got to the point I cried at the thought of going to the kitchen. The magic bullet was imodium, which seems to have calmed her poor system enough to let her rest and eat in peace. Now if only she would use the litterbox consistently, I could claim a victory. Heck, I’d be even happier if she’d go back outside to do her business.
Unfortunately, that is not the case.
I have a recently birthed pair of kittens and their feral mother in a crate in my living room, or I would crate her till she decides the litter box is a better choice than her bed. She has used it, so I know she knows, but she pees around it. I put down some heavy duty plastic to keep my floors from being further ruined, but I can’t put it everywhere. She keeps changing her spot. I am at a loss. It will be at least 5 weeks before I can spay the mother cat and free the crate. I don’t know if I can take 5 more weeks of cat crap in my kitchen. Seriously. It is not a happy day.
The sad part is, she’s a twin for the one currently in the crate. I think they’re sisters. They hate each other, so I’m not positive, but I would put money on it. She’s a really sweet cat. She rubs my legs and purrs, talks to me constantly, and is easing up a bit in her aggression toward the other cats. I think one of them left because of her, maybe also because of the kittens, but there’s nothing I can really do about that.
I wonder if she lost her mind because she was so young when she had kittens, and she was so sick the whole time she was nursing them. It was hard on her. I worry I can’t fix her, and I will have no choice but to put her down. I hate the thought of that, but I can’t live in a toilet bowl. I am a pig, but even pigs have limits.
Her sister Kit is much healthier, since she grew up in my house. I should have caught Kit before she went in heat and prevented her pregnancy, but I suck and didn’t do it. I think I subconsciously wanted kittens again. Stupid me.
Anyway, that’s how I have spent my last month. School started back, classes are good, I sorta really hate teaching piano, and I need to put together a resume and find a real job next year. I don’t want to live where it gets over 85 in the summer, seriously. No more humidity. This summer almost killed me – I want to be done with this sticky mess of a place. I can deal 6 months out of the year, but the other 6 are just too freakin’ hot. Ick.
OH! One of the children managed to kill and bring in a 4-foot black racer to lay beside the sofa. Yeah. THAT was fun.
Hey, anybody want a kitten?