I am going to share something here that some folks might think is pretty weird, but Charls' poem led me to tell it.

My Wookie cat died about 6 yr ago.  Now Wook's claim to fame was that she was beautiful (she would try to catch birds by lying on the grass fluffing her fur at them and never understood why they didn't just fly into her mouth).  We used to call her Marilyn (for Monroe) because she would literally pose to show off her little furry self.  She also like to keep time to classical music with her tail--did this from a baby and never was off!  Wook was 22 when she died and she had some kind of problem (I have forgotten) which cause her fur to matt and she couldn't groom herself and was generally "not beautiful" the night she went Home to the Bridge.

Now for the WEIRD part.  About a week after she died, I  Walked into my bathroom  in the morning and (HONEST!!) there was Wook (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) curled up on her favorite pink rug.  She looked like she had in her youth..beautiful, fluffy, gray and sparkling eyes.  I literally almost jumped out of my skin.  But she looked at me as if to say--hey look Mom,  I am fine and healthy and happy and here to see you.  She never came back after that day, but that was when I knew that when our babies go Home, they are healthy and healed AND they know exactly where we are and what we are doing and how much we miss them.

This list seems like a good place to share this "happening," and the best place for us to remember that one day we will see our little ones again and they (and us too, I assume) will be happy, healthy, healed.

My dear Dobe KoKo was 6 before he was neutered because everyone kept telling me how much he would change.  Well, I loved him so much - and just the way he was - that I didn't want to mess with him.  However, he started getting infections and they would not clear up.  His vet - Sandy McAllister, now of Cambridge Narrows, NB - told me flatly that he had to be neutered and that the problem would clear up if KoKo were.  So, one day I took him over to have this done - and changed my mind by next morning.
When I called and told Sandy not to do it, that everyone said it would change his personality he said, "What VET told you that" - well, of course, no vet.  And I never forgot his next words - "His personality is up between his ears, not down between his legs!"

KoKo's infection never returned - and his personality did not change. 

<snip>

BTW - on a humorous side - one evening I did notice the familiar red urine  and rushed Kokie to the vet - Sandy did all the blood work and urine tests but everything came back negative.  In the meantime, I'd recalled that the night before KoKo had scoffed down a bowl of beets I'd put on the cupboard to cool - never told Sandy. <VBG>

For all of you who want to read only diabetes problems/solution, read no further.  For those of you who do and can relate, read further. 

I just have to share this - in case anyone else thinks they're "going
over the edge".  I think I've been concentrating on the list too long. 

After asking for advice for Tiffany's sudden pickiness in her eating habits and getting a lot of WONDERFUL advice and hints, which have been working (thank you very much!), I guess I've been thinking and worrying about it more than I realized. 

I just sat back down after feeding her to read some more messages.  I looked at a message, and thought that someone was sending a recipe for some type of food or treats to the list.  When I opened it and started reading it, it said, "the muffin batter should be thick, not thin . . ."

I thought, "What on earth is this, is this some kind of joke, we don't give batter to our pets."  Then it hit me - it was an actual recipe that is on the Celiac list I'm on for my sister.  I'm concentrating so much on Tiffany's diabetes eating pattern and this list, that I didn't even notice that the subject just said "Muffin Recipe", not "[Muffin] Recipe", nor did I notice that when the message came up it said "Celiac" not "Muffin".  I had to laugh at myself.

Am I obsessing or what!!!!  I guess as long as I can laugh at myself, I
haven't gone completely over the edge.  So if any of you think your losing it, you're NOT alone.

Have a good evening.

Wendy and Tiffany (What am I going to do with her?!)
 

  I loved your story, I predict that there will be a flood of tales about our wonderful, heroic, smart animals!
  Here's mine:  6 years ago I became pregnant and a lot of well-meaning people told me that I should get rid of my sweet cat, Spaz, because he would be jealous of the new baby.  I was concerned, but decided to wait and see what would happen.

He was pretty excited about this new presence, he couldn't keep his eyes off him.  He would perch on a shelf near the baby's bed and watch him all day.  He never jumped in the crib and "sucked his breath" or any of the other nutty things people tried to warn me about!  The minute my son would wake up, Spaz would race to where ever I was, yowling to beat the band.  The kid never had to cry, Spaz would do it for him!

My son is now 5, and Spaz is 14 years old.  My son adores him and Spaz is very tolerant of this affection in his curmudgeon sort of way.  He no longer feels the need to watch him sleep... or so I thought.

About a year ago, I was awakened in the middle of the night by Spaz: in-my-face yowling.  I was really annoyed, thinking that he had woken me up to be fed since he darted out of the room as soon as he felt I was sufficiently concious.  He wasn't running to the kitchen, though, he was running to my son's room.  Seems that my son had thrown up and was choking.  I didn't hear this and I wouldn't have heard it if Spaz hadn't woken me up!  (He was okay,
although he ended up in the hospital a couple of weeks later because of pneumonia.)
  Spaz probably saved my son's life, I am honored to have the opportunity to repay the favor.  Even if this had never happened, he has given me 14 years of unconditional love, which is a lot more than I can say for my ex-husband (but that's a different subject!).  Many thanks to y'all who have given advice, experience and most of all, hope.

Suzanne and Spaz (Forrest's fur-brother!)
 

 Date: Wed, 14 Jan 1998 09:16:36 -0500
From: Jacki H <jackih@erols.com>
Subject: [MUFFIN] My Hero

I was just sitting here in my office (at home) with my coffee and thinking back over some of my experiences with my pets.  I would like to share one of them with all of you.

Magic is not my only pet.  I also have another cat and 3 Pomeranians. My oldest Pom is Rascal and he was 10 in Sept.

One morning last summer,  I let all 5 of them all out into the yard. After a little while I heard Rascal barking.  He doesn't bark to get back in so I went to the door to see what was going on.  When I opened the door he ran inside and just kept barking at me and looking back out the door.

I decided to follow him back outside.  He went running down the side of the house and right into a flower bed.  There lay Magic, having his first "episode".  I picked him up and started inside with him.  I glanced over my shoulder and saw Rascal in the driveway.  I still don't know how he got out the gate.  He was running down the street barking. 

Now I didn't know what to do, but knew I had to take care of Magic. About 5 minutes later my Mom appeared.  She lives right around the corner.  Rascal had run down to her house to get her and I guess to tell her we needed help.

Had it not been for Rascal that day, we would probably have lost Magic.

What priceless treasures our pets are!

Jacki and The Gang
 

Yes keep the cat in the carrier :-)  My kitty Buba (Booba) was in the hospital for 3 nights and four days for surgery.  So when I picked him up he was in the carrier but at the red light I let him out-he kept looking at me and meowing as if saying "Mommy, please hold me" so I did.  I let him out and he sat right on my lap.  We only had 2 miles to go.  But you know that out of all accidents 80% happen within 5 miles of the home.  Well that is what happened..Not a car accident (thank God), but Buba had an accident.  He wee'd all over me.  He holds it at the vet so when he felt comfortable he let it all go...all over me!  This was 3 days of bladder he had been holding.  He sleeps in the litter 
box at the vet and they realized he didn't go so one day they relieved his bladder for him. But the rest of it he relieved on me :-)  Now it is a funny story...even at the time I was laughing, but now I always use the carrier. 
:-)  Happy traveling. 
Michelle 
 

Please tell me I'm not the only one to do this.  Do you ever have your beloved pet on your mind to the point that you mistakenly call your child (talking HUMAN child here!) by your pet's name?

This incident might not have been so bad if not for the circumstance and the name of my cat.  The other day I was at a psychologist's office with my son, who is having some problems at school.  When it was his turn to see the doctor, I said "Come on, Spaz!"  The looks I got from the other parents in the room could have melted iron!

I was so embarrassed I didn't even try to explain that I was calling my son by my cat's name by mistake.  I doubt that they would have understood that either.  I guess I'll just explain it to the CPS officer who comes to investigate (just kidding, I hope!).

Suzanne, Spaz and Forrest (I better practice saying that name)
 

A few more people today have asked about the lymphoma story I alluded to in a recent post. It's easiest to just post it here in case anyone else is interested, but it's NOT a diabetes story, and it's LONG, so if not interested, now's the time to DELETE!
Hilary

- -----------Begin forwarded message----------

My childhood friend's cocker spaniel, age 14, had Cushings Disease, hypothyroidism, kidney problems, severe allergies and skin problems, and very bad hips and arthritis so that some days he couldn't even stand.  He was on all sorts of meds and various special supplements. For the past couple of years, he could barely drag himself outside, eats lying down, wheezes.  Also he is obese --and my friend is a lost cause as far as doing anything to reduce the dog's weight. I constantly try to intervene and get her and the dog into better condition, but it isn't easy.  Within the last two years, both her parents with whom she was living, died after long, miserable illnesses, leaving her all alone with her sickly old dog.
 She herself has diabetes, hypertension, and recent cancer surgery, and suffers from depression.  It's not a cheery picture. 

When the dog, Ralphie, took a bad turn back around Thanksgiving, it looked as if we
were in for a really bad scene.  She called me hysterical when she got home from work one night to report that the dog had gone from his sickly but generally stable self in the 
morning to totally incapacitated, no eating, drinking, wouldn't get up, labored breathing, etc.  Her vet was closed and she can't lift the dog anyway, so off I zoomed to haul the dog although, since she is not medically well informed and exaggerates a bit, I figured I could at least get him to walk.  I certainly hoped so, since the dog practically weighs more than I do.  She lives over an hour away and I was prepared to be pretty ticked off if I got there and the dog was fine -- though, of course, I hoped he was.

I found what, in my experience, was a dog who would be dead within 24 hours.  Totally crashed, raging fever, badly dehydrated, shocky and gasping.  I also found two hugely enlarged cervical nodes and some hard nodes in the groin.  He was dying, I thought, either from cancer or some huge infection.  If infection, we maybe had a chance.  Otherwise, no way. She swore (and she is an emotional mess, but not stupid) that none of this was present previously, that he had been "off" a little the day before, but that this was the first indication of a (new) problem.

There was no way Ralphie was going to get up. The  vet'y. emergency place was 45 minutes away, but when we tried to lift him, he mustered just enough strength to bite me a good one.  Then he started gagging and nearly passed out from the effort.  Tried a loose muzzling, but as soon as his mouth was closed even a little, he couldn't breathe at all.   So I
gave him a large dose of Baytril and sub-Q water over a couple of hours, got temp down to 104.2.  At 7 a.m. he was pretty out of it, so we carried him to her car and I sent her off to her vet (and raced home covered in dog pee to give insulin shots at my house -- what a life).

She called me crying from the vet right after I got home.  Vet did an immediate biopsy and labs, said the dog had terminal lymphosarcoma with multiple complications, wouldn't live another 48 hours, and should be put down.  This is a vet I worked for years ago, a good, very state-of-the-art guy, not at all quick to give up. In fact, he recently sent another friend's very sick dog to the oncologist on the outside chance that he could be helped.  He wasn't, but the point is that this guy goes for all the possibilities.  I told her to take his advice and let Ralphie go.  She hung up, sobbing.

Next I got a call  from her later that day that she was home with the dog.  She had refused the euthanasia and hysterically dragged him home.  When Ralphie was very sick with Cushing's some years before, we had brought him to U Penn to a specialist there who got him dxed and straightened out.  She wanted that to happen again.  I argued with her for awhile, then offered to drive her down the next morning to the vet'y. oncology specialist I have previously used.  I was sure Ralphie would die before then and I sat by the phone waiting to go there when it appeared to be happening.  Throughout the night she kept calling, his breathing was even more labored, in and out of consciousness.  The next morning before I left my house, I called the oncologist, thank heavens he was there, and asked him to a) call the original vet for a rundown, and b) please do everything in his power when we arrived to convince her to put the dog to sleep while we were there so I could be with her.  He totally agreed.

By the time I got to her house, I seriously questioned whether Ralphie would even last the trip.  The vet the previous morning had hydrated him and given him a shot to reduce fever and make him a little more comfortable, but he was now too weak to hold his eyes open and barely breathing, also had two mild seizures in the car on the way, and began gurgling with chest fluids.  I prayed that we would make it there so she could agree to euthanize rather than have him die first and have her left thinking she extended his suffering, since she was already talking about that on the way there.

We arrived, they had him carried in, the doc examined him, said he had talked with the original vet and had the labs faxed while we were in transit.  He said he had never seen a sicker dog and he would definitely die by evening.  No surprises there. Then he said if he could stabilize Ralphie within 4 hours, there might be something he could try.  I couldn't believe my ears!  I thought he was insane and wanted to kick myself for starting all this.  He had told me he would put the dog out of his awful suffering and now he wanted to fool around a while longer.  I was blown away.  I just couldn't believe it -- and I am someone who never quits, who has gone the chemo route with sick animals, who goes the distance and then some -- always.  But I have never seen a sicker, more hopeless animal.  I went to the car and called the first vet and told him what was happening.  He said he knew.  He agreed that it was crazy and would only cause much more pain for everyone.  He told me to try and get my friend to decline the idea.  We also knew she was broke.  By then, 2 hours had passed.  She insisted on giving the doc the whole 4 hour he asked for to evaluate the dog.  So we waited. 

At the end of the 4 hours, the poor dog looked the same to me, but there had been two other vets working on him the whole time and they said his chems and gases were a little better, so the oncologist wanted to try a new chemo regimen (tri-cycle metho, pred, vincristine, aspariginase,  + doxorubicin) that had shown promise in the most advanced cases of lymphoma.  He said the possibilities in order of probability were 1) dead by evening from condition, 2) dead by evening from first chemo infusion, 3) dead by tomorrow or next day from acute tumor lysis syndrome, 4) dead within three weeks from chemo trauma or infection, or 5) it might work and get a decent remission. I couldn't even listen.  I went to the car. When she came out, weeping that maybe there was a chance, I couldn't even respond.  Just drove the hour and a half to her house, dumped her, and then the hour and a half home.  The rest is history. 

It was a very rough go, many days in the hospital, many emergency trips back with him after he came home and kept crashing, on-the-spot modifications to the protocol because he is a Cushing's case and couldn't take pred which is a component of the protocol, many trips to the original vet (whose mouth, like mine, is still hanging open), and, of course, a bank loan to cover the $3500 (so far) cost, including the cost of the extra hospitalizations, etc.

Today (this all started around Thanksgiving), Ralphie runs around the yard barking his head off like he did many years ago, eats like a pig (lost 20 lbs. with the ordeal, gained it all back and is fat again), the huge nodes disappeared within days of the first treatment, his quality of life is excellent, and my friend has finally had some good luck for a change.  There is no telling how long his remission will last.  It's been a couple of months so far and a year would be nice.  He's on a maintenance chemo, goes back and forth for monthly treatment.  When he slips, they will try another heavy round, maybe with an additional drug, but the hope for another remission is slim.  I've been around animals all my life and think I have a lot of experience.  I swore this dog was a goner; so did a very experienced, well-connected vet with a very open mind who deals in various treatment modalities including alternatives and even transplants.  I've never been so happy to be so wrong.  So there's no telling what is meant to be, is there? 

 Recently, I was discussing all this with my own vet, a truly sharp, cutting-edge, Cornell adjunct, who is also a personal friend and neighbor.  Just out of curiosity, he said he wished he could see the labs and work-ups on this case, because maybe it wasn't really as bad as it
had appeared to me since I know the dog and was upset to see him so sick.  My vet sends many animals to chemo, knows there can be remarkable results sometimes.  I got the stuff from my friend and gave it to him to review. His response?  "No way."

Talk about live and learn.
 

by: Barbara Gunvaldsen, February, 2003 

Yesterday was the annual chocolate festival that I'd been fussing about.  Our humane society table was placed right next to a crafter's whose wares included a "cat quilt".  The cat quilt was the size of those catnip pads that are sold--but it must have contained 3 times as much catnip because it was really thick and cushy.  Not one of the thin, token-catnip ones.

I yielded to temptation and bought one (a rather handsome navy blue).  The cats could smell it as soon as I walked into the house with it and they followed me closely, making me feel like the Pied Piper.  I turned it over to Nicki (dc/honeymoon) because she, being very socially clumsy, seems to live a lonely existence.

WELL!  The others came siddling up, trying to get to rub at the edges.  Nicki considered their wants and her needs--and decided that Number One comes out first: clearly it was HER quilt and she had no intention of sharing (I guess she's heard the old story about the camel and the tent!). So she held forth like Shelob, frightening off any would-be raider with a snarl and a swipe.

Clearly I am going to have to get some more of these.  They are pricey so I think that I will buy some regular cat pads, slit the seam, and add another cup or two of catnip.

  Barbara and Nicki ("It's MINE!") and Mosby 

Unfortunately there is a part 2.

Finally ready to explode, Nicki left the quilt for her litterbox.  When she returned, of course the quilt was reoccupied.  A scuffle ensued and someone's claw stuck into one of the quilted seams.  The result was that the catnip was exposed.  The cats made quick work of the handsome quilting and soon there were green crumblies all over the room.  Now Nicki sits glowering at the shreds of her quilt--but she is the only grumpy one because everyone else is really happy (except me, of course).

A friend who is a serious quilter told me that the sort of material used to make these lovely smaller pieces is far too flimsy to stand up to a cat.  She told me that addition stuffing to a more utilitarian cat pad would be a great deal more practical.

So Nicki has had a lesson in politics and I have had a lesson in economics!

  Barbara and Nicki & Mosby

This is the story of the night my ten-year-old cat, Rudy, got his head stuck in the garbage disposal. I knew at the time that the experience would be funny if the cat survived, so let me tell you right up front that he's fine. 

Getting him out wasn't easy, though, and the process included  numerous home remedies, a plumber, two cops, an emergency overnight veterinary clinic, a case of mistaken identity, five hours of panic, and fifteen minutes of fame.

First, some background. My husband, Rich, and I had just returned from a five-day spring-break vacation in the Cayman Islands, where I had been sick as a dog the whole time, trying to convince myself that if I had to feel lousy, it was better to do it in paradise. We had arrived home at 9 p.m., a day and a half later than we had planned because of airline problems. I still had illness-related vertigo and because of the flight delays had not been able to prepare the class I was supposed to teach at 8:40 the next morning. I sat down at my desk to think about William Carlos Williams, and around ten o'clock I heard Rich hollering something indecipherable from the kitchen. 

As I raced out to see what was wrong, I saw Rich frantically rooting around under the kitchen sink, and Rudy -- or, rather, Rudy's headless body -- scrambling around  in the sink, his claws clicking in panic on the metal. Rich had just ground up the skin of some smoked salmon in the garbage disposal, and when he left the room, Rudy (whom we always did call a pinhead) had gone in after it. 

It is very disturbing to see the headless body of your cat in the sink. This is an animal that I have slept with nightly for ten years, who burrows under the covers and purrs against my side, and who now looked like a desperate, fur-covered turkey carcass, set to defrost in the sink while it's still alive and kicking. It was also disturbing to see Rich, Mr. Calm-in-an-Emergency, at his wits end, trying to soothe Rudy, trying to undo the garbage disposal, failing at both, and basically freaking out. Adding to the chaos was Rudy's twin brother Lowell, also upset, racing around in circles, jumping onto the kitchen counter and alternately licking Rudy's butt for comfort and biting it out of fear. Clearly, I had to do something.

First we tried to ease Rudy out of the disposal by lubricating his head and neck. We tried Johnson's baby shampoo (kept on hand for my nieces' visits) and butter-flavored Crisco: both failed, and a now-greasy Rudy kept struggling. 

Rich then decided to take apart the garbage disposal, which was a good idea, but he couldn't do it. Turns out, the thing is constructed like a metal  onion: you peel off one layer and another one appears, with Rudy's head still buried deep inside, stuck in a hard plastic collar. My job during this process was to sit on the kitchen counter petting Rudy, trying to calm him, with the room spinning (vertigo), Lowell howling (he's part Siamese), and Rich clattering around with tools.

When all our efforts failed, we sought professional help. I called our regular plumber, who actually called me back quickly, even at 11 o'clock at night (thanks, Dave). He talked Rich through further layers of disposal dismantling, but still we couldn't reach Rudy. I called the 1-800 number for Insinkerator (no response), a pest removal service that advertises 24-hour service (no response), an all-night emergency veterinary clinic (who had no experience in this matter, and so, no advice), and finally, in desperation, 911. 

I could see that Rudy's normally pink paw pads were turning blue. The fire department, I figured, gets cats out of trees; maybe they could get one out of a garbage disposal.

The dispatcher had other ideas and offered to send over two policemen. This suggestion gave me pause. I'm from the sixties, and even if I am currently a fine upstanding citizen, I had never considered calling the cops and asking them to come to my house, on purpose. I resisted the suggestion, but the dispatcher was adamant: "They'll help you out," he said.

The cops arrived close to midnight and turned out to be quite nice.  More importantly, they were also able to think rationally, which we were not. They were, of course, quite astonished by the situation: "I've never seen anything like this," Officer Mike kept saying. (The unusual circumstances helped us get quickly on a first-name basis with our cops.) Officer Tom, who expressed immediate sympathy for our plight -- "I've had cats all my life," he said, comfortingly -- also had an idea. 

Evidently we needed a certain tool, a tiny, circular rotating saw, that could cut through the heavy plastic flange encircling Rudy's neck without hurting Rudy, and Officer Tom happened to own one. "I live just five minutes from here," he said; "I'll go get it." He soon
returned, and the three of them -- Rich and the two policemen -- got under the sink together to cut through the garbage disposal. I sat on the counter, holding Rudy and trying not to succumb to the surreal-ness of the scene, with the weird middle-of-the-night lighting, the room's occasional spinning, Lowell's spooky sound effects, an apparently headless cat in my sink and six disembodied legs poking out from under it. One good thing came of this: the guys did manage to get the bottom off of the disposal, so we could now see Rudy's face and knew he could breathe. But they couldn't cut the flange without risking the cat. 

Stumped.

Officer Tom had another idea. "You know," he said, "I think the reason we can't get him out is the angle of his head and body. If we could just get the sink out and lay it on its side, Ill bet we could slip him out." That sounded like a good idea at this point. ANYTHING would have sounded like a good idea, and as it turned out, Officer Mike runs a plumbing business on weekends; he knew how to take out the sink! Again they went to work, the three pairs of legs sticking out from under the sink surrounded by an ever-increasing pile of tools and sink parts. They cut the electrical supply, capped off the plumbing lines, unfastened the metal clamps, unscrewed all the pipes, and about an hour later, voila! the sink was lifted gently out of the countertop, with one guy holding the garbage disposal (which contained Rudy's head) up close to the sink (which contained Rudy's body). We laid the sink on its side, but even at this more favorable removal angle, Rudy stayed stuck. 

Officer Tom's radio beeped, calling him away on some kind of real police business. As he was leaving, though, he had another good idea: "You know," he said, "I don't think we can get him out while he's struggling so much. We need to get the cat sedated. If he were limp, we could slide him out." And off he went, regretfully, a cat lover still worried about Rudy. The remaining three of us decided that getting Rudy sedated was a good idea, but Rich and I were new to the area. 

We knew that the overnight emergency veterinary clinic was
only a few minutes away, but we didn't know exactly how to get there. "I know where it is!" declared Officer Mike. "Follow me!" So Mike got into his patrol car, Rich got into the driver's seat of our car, and I got into the back, carrying the kitchen sink, what was left of the garbage disposal, and Rudy. It was now about 2:00 a.m. 

We followed Officer Mike for a few blocks when I decided to put my hand into the garbage disposal to pet Rudy's face, hoping I could comfort him. Instead, my sweet, gentle bedfellow chomped down on my
finger hard, really hard, and wouldn't let go. My scream reflex kicked into gear, and I couldn't stop the noise. Rich slammed on the brakes, hollering "What? What happened? Should I stop?", checking us out in the rearview mirror. "No," I managed to get out between screams, "just keep driving. Rudy's biting me, but we've got to get to the vet. Just go!" Rich turned his attention back to the road, where Officer Mike took a turn we hadn't expected, and we followed. After a few minutes Rudy let go, and as I stopped screaming, I looked up to discover that we were wandering aimlessly through an industrial
park, in and out of empty parking lots, past little streets that didn't look
at all familiar. "Where's he taking us?" I asked. "We should have been there ten minutes ago!" Rich was as mystified as I was, but all we knew to do was follow the police car until, finally, he pulled into a church parking lot and we pulled up next to him. As Rich rolled down the window to ask, "Mike, where are we going?", the cop, who was not Mike, rolled down his window and asked, "Why are you following me?" 

Once Rich and I recovered from our shock at having tailed the wrong cop car and the policeman from his pique at being stalked, he led us quickly to the emergency vet, where Mike greeted us by holding open the door, exclaiming "Where were you guys???"

It was lucky that Mike got to the vet's ahead of us, because we hadn't thought to call and warn them about what was coming. (Clearly, by this time we weren't really thinking at all.) We brought in the kitchen sink containing Rudy and the garbage disposal containing his head, and the clinic staff was ready. They took his temperature (which was down 10 degrees) and his oxygen level (which was half of normal), and the vet declared: "This cat is in serious shock. We've got to sedate him and get him out of there immediately." When I asked if it was OK to sedate a cat in shock, the vet said grimly, "We don't have a choice." 

With that, he injected the cat; Rudy went limp; and the vet squeezed
about half a tube of K-Y jelly onto the cat's neck and pulled him free. Then the whole team jumped into "code blue" mode. (I know this from watching a lot of ER.) They laid Rudy on a cart, where one person hooked up IV fluids, another put little socks on his paws ("You'd be amazed how much heat they lose through their pads," she said), one covered him with hot water bottles and a blanket, and another took a blow-dryer to warm up Rudy's now very gunky head.

The fur on his head dried in stiff little spikes, making him look rather
pathetically punk as he lay there, limp and motionless. At this point they sent Rich, Mike, and me to sit in the waiting room while they tried to bring Rudy back to life. I told Mike he didn't have to stay, but he just stood there, shaking his head. "I've never seen anything like this," he said again. 

At about 3 a.m, the vet came in to tell us that the prognosis was good for a full recovery. They needed to keep Rudy overnight to re-hydrate him and give him something for the brain swelling they assumed he had, but if all went well, we could take him home the following night. Just in time to hear the good news, Officer Tom rushed in, finished with his real police work and concerned about Rudy. I figured that once this ordeal was over and Rudy was home safely, I would have to re-think my position on the police.

Rich and I got back home about 3:30. We hadn't unpacked from our trip, I was still intermittently dizzy, and I still hadn't prepared my 8:40 class. "I need a vacation," I said, and while I called the office to leave a message canceling my class, Rich made us a pitcher of martinis.
I slept late the next day and then badgered the vet about Rudy's condition until he said that Rudy could come home later that day. 

I was working on the suitcases when the phone rang. "Hi, this is Steve Huskey from the Norristown Times-Herald," a voice told me. "Listen, I was just going through the police blotter from last night. Mostly it's the usual stuff breaking and entering, petty theft but there's this one item. Um, do you have a cat?" So I told Steve the whole story, which interested him. A couple hours later he called back to say that his editor was interested, too; did I have a picture of Rudy? The next day Rudy was front-page news, under the ridiculous headline "Catch of the
Day Lands Cat in Hot Water."

There were some noteworthy repercussions to the newspaper article. Mr. Huskey had somehow inferred that I called 911 because I thought Rich, my husband, was going into shock, although how he concluded this from my comment that "his pads were turning blue," I don't quite understand. So the first thing I had to do was call Rich at work Rich, who had worked tirelessly to free Rudy -- and swear that I had been misquoted. 

When I arrived at work myself, I was famous; people had been calling my secretary all morning to inquire about Rudy's health. When I called our regular vet (whom I had met only once) to make a
follow-up appointment for Rudy, the receptionist asked, "Is this the famous Rudy's mother?" When I brought my car in for routine maintenance a few days later, Dave, my mechanic, said, "We read about your cat. Is he OK?" When I called a tree surgeon about my dying red oak, he asked if I knew the person on that street whose cat had been in the garbage disposal. And when I went to get my hair cut, the shampoo person told me the funny story her grandma had read in the paper, about a cat who got stuck in the garbage disposal. Even today, over a year later, people ask about Rudy, whom a 9-year-old neighbor had always called "the Adventure Cat" because he used to climb on the roof of her house and peer in the second-story window at her. 

I don't know what the moral of this story is, but I do know that this
"adventure" cost me $1100 in emergency vet bills, follow-up vet care, new sink, new plumbing, new electrical wiring, and new garbage disposal, one with a cover. The vet can no longer say he's seen everything but the kitchen sink. 

I wanted to thank Officers Tom and Mike by giving them gift  certificates to the local hardware store, but was told that they couldn't accept gifts, that I would put them in a bad position if I tried. So I wrote a letter to the Police Chief praising their good deeds and sent individual thank-you notes to Tom and Mike, complete with pictures of Rudy, so they could see what he looks like with his head on. And Rudy, whom we originally got for free (or so we thought), still sleeps with me under the covers on cold nights and unaccountably, he still sometimes prowls the sink, hoping for fish.
 

Reproduced here with permission of Rudy's owner, Patti Schroeder, a professor in the English department at Ursinus College in Collegeville, Pennsylvania.