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They say animals use more of their senses than humans, and I believe it. I can tell by the way it refuses to stay wrapped up in the towel despite how many times I place it there. Apparently, it doesn’t appreciate the memory of that beach day as much as I do. Stay, I say. But it doesn’t appear to understand English nor care to try and we’re not even halfway there.
Cats carry disease. I can hear my mother’s warning, clear as day. I mean, she’s dead—but the dead can still be right.
When I was three I got ringworm from a neighborhood stray, and my mom had to shave my head. There are pictures somewhere. People thought I was a cancer patient, which horrified my mother. That horror was only superseded when anyone assumed I was a boy.
I can recall in vivid detail the day she took me in for blood work just to make sure about the cancer. Ringworm could have been anything, she said. Technically. She sat me down and explained I might be dying. She was sorry, she said. She might have guessed wrong, and it might be too late. Even if it wasn’t, we didn’t have insurance, and cancer treatment is very expensive. So many lessons in one conversation. That was my mother.
The kitten yawns and stretches, and then it hops onto the seat and crawls into my lap. I move my hips, wiggling in my seat, any
thing to make it go back where it came from. It doesn’t budge. Instead, it curls its tail under its body and settles in for a long winter’s nap.
This forces me to steer with one hand while finagling the sleeve of my shirt over the other. It takes a bit of effort but eventually I’m able to lift the cat from my lap and once again place it back on the towel without it touching my skin.
We drive on.
When we arrive at the vet, I’m faced with the crippling reality that dropping it on the doorstep isn’t going to be as easy as I’d envisioned in my mind. For one, there are windows everywhere. Two, people seem to come and go nonstop. I consider asking if any of them would like a free kitten. But they probably don’t, and I hate rejection.
Ultimately, I go through the usual speech I have with myself before walking into a new experience. First, I count to ten. Then, I go through the alphabet. Somewhere around W, it dawns on me there’s food in the back that will spoil. I finish on Z and suck it up. I wasn’t always like this, in case you’re wondering.
Ann Banks says in her book you should always look forward, never backward. This is useful in that I realize I should have considered what I’m going to say about the kitten on the way here instead of recounting my life story.
“It’s never too late for a fresh start.” She posted that on Instalook the other day.
I scoop the kitten up, along with the towel and cup it in my hands. “Sorry,” I say. “But you’re getting a fresh start.”
You can’t be a hero all the time.
Speaking of heroes, I could sure use one now. I’m not sure what I’m expecting when we reach the counter in the vet’s office. Help, perhaps. What I’m not expecting is to be yelled at. Apparently I wasn’t supposed to move the kitten. Apparently, its mother might have come back for it, and apparently I have ruined everything, including the circle of life.
Never mind that it was under my tire.
The technician tells me firmly that I can’t leave the cat there. He informs me they are a business, not an animal shelter. I ask him what I should do. It’s dehydrated, he says. And only about three weeks old. Which means it’ll have to be bottle feed for a few weeks. It needed at least three weeks longer with its mother before it would be ready to survive on its own. I can take it to the shelter, he says. But they’ll probably put it down.
“As in kill it?” I ask. It doesn’t feel like a stupid question until it’s out in the open and I see his expression. It’s common sense; that’s the way he looks at me. He doesn’t understand why I don’t know these things, so I assure him I’ll make it a point to put nature on the list of things I need to learn.
I can’t take it home, I say. And then, I tell him that my husband is allergic, as though this will explain everything.
He doesn’t offer a response. Instead, after a rather intense stare down—maybe we’re having a contest to see who will be the first to blink, and maybe we aren’t—he asks if there’s anything else he can help me with.
For the record, I won.
“I can’t keep the cat,” I repeat. I nod toward the veterinary symbol painted on the wall. “What about the Hippocratic oath?”
He sighs heavily. “It’s not the same.”
“Well, it should be,” I say peering at the cat. “What happened to: To protect and to Serve?”
He’s still not amused. “Also, not the same.”
The standoff continues. I consider for a second just bolting. He sees me considering it. Maybe this is why he backtracks. Maybe it’s because he sees how naïve I am. He tells me, if we get some weight on her, get her healthy; she will fare better at the shelter. Her odds of being adopted are better if she’s cute and cuddly, he assures me. If I’m willing to foot the bill, they can care for her until she’s old enough to eat on her own.
I don’t ask how much this will cost, even though my mind is screaming that I should.
I simply hand over my credit card. The one reserved for emergencies. The one I’m well aware my husband will kill me for using.
CHAPTER SIX
SADIE
