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“No, though I think he’s still a kitten.”
“Well, the doctor should be able to give you an approximate age. Do you know when he was last seen by the vet?”
“My guess is never. Or if so, before she adopted him. Let’s put it this way: the cat requires more care and money than she was willing to invest.” That wasn’t exactly true, but I didn’t want to go into the whole mess.
“Okay, the doctor will be in to see you in a moment.”
I stopped her. “Before I leave, can I board Silver here for a half an hour to pick up supplies? This was an impulse decision, and I don’t have what I need at home. I can grab everything I need from the pet shop next door—a litter box and food and toys.”
“I’m sure we can watch him while you shop for his needs,” Tara said.
The door opened and a short, older man with round glasses entered the room. He was bald and had the warmest brown eyes I’d ever seen. He was human, from what I could tell, and was wearing a pair of gray khakis and black leather oxfords. Under his lab coat, he wore a blue and white button-down shirt, and he looked both tidy and tailored, yet moved with a casual ease.
“Well, hello…Elphyra,” he said, glancing at the computer screen. “Tara, can you print out the forms and get the file ready while I take a look at our patient here?”
“Of course, Doctor.” She pressed a button on the keyboard, then headed out of the room, shutting the door behind her.
“I’m Doctor John. John Stillwater. And who is my patient today?” he asked, peeking into the carrier. “I see we have a kitty.”
“I just adopted him. The woman’s husband told her to get rid of him, so I decided to give him a home before she did something stupid like dumping him. I’m renaming him Silver, and I have no clue if he’s been fixed, been to a vet, been microchipped, or how old he is.”
Dr. John weighed Silver, then palpitated the cat’s sides. He took Silver’s temperature, murmuring, “Good, we’re normal,” then opened his mouth and looked at his teeth. After that Tara returned and she held Silver while Dr. John scanned him for a chip.
“No microchip. He doesn’t have fleas, thank goodness, but given what you tell me, we should probably deworm him as a matter of course, and give him his vaccines. Would you like me to microchip him, as well?”
“Yes, please,” I said.
The vet tech left, returning with several syringes. The doctor scruffed Silver’s fur, then injected him with the usual vaxes, a microchip, and then scanned him to confirm it was working.
Afterwards, he turned to me. “Do you want to check him for feline leukemia? And we should talk about neutering him. I’d say the little guy’s five months old, though he could be a little older and malnourished.”
“If he’s not neutered, yes, let’s set an appointment. And go ahead and do whatever bloodwork on him that you deem necessary. So, five months old? Do you have any idea what breed?”
“Well, you can do a pet DNA test to find out for sure, but by the looks of his paws, he’s going to be a big boy. And with the shape of his ears, and the tufty feet and long fur, I think he might have some Maine Coon in him. He could also be part Norwegian Forest cat. He’s blue-gray in color, as you can see, and he’s growing into what should become a fabulous mane/ruff around his neck. Otherwise, your boy is in good health. He seems laid back for a kitten that age.”
As if to prove him wrong, Silver suddenly jumped, using the doctor’s shoulder as a launching pad to catapult him across to the counter with the sink in it. He sat in the sink, staring at the faucet.
“I think he wants the water on?” I asked.
“That would lend toward the Norwegian Forest cat theory,” Dr. John said. “Have you ever had a cat?”
“When I was young. I love cats, though. When I saw that he might be headed for a shelter—if he was lucky, or the woods, if he was unlucky, I decided that I have the space and time to devote to a cat. So why not give him a stable life with me? But as I said, it’s been a while. What do you recommend I buy?”
“A new collar and tags—even though he’s chipped, some people might not think to check for that. Litter box, I recommend avoiding clay litter and scented litters. Litter box scoop, food dish—if you have the choice, get one that’s geared to prevent whisker fatigue?—”
That led into me asking what whisker fatigue was, and when he told me, I immediately thought of Fancypants. Although he was a dragonette, Fancypants also had long whiskers like a cat. I wondered if he grew tired of holding them back to keep them from bending on the edge of a narrow dish.
“You’ll also want toys, a scratching post, maybe a cat bed or cat condo. Cats and kittens love to climb. Other than that, keep him indoors. We have too many coyotes around here, and both coyotes and raccoons will attack cats for a meal. We also have bobcats and the occasional puma. Keep his nails trimmed, bring him in for a yearly checkup as well as if you notice a worrisome change in behavior. Love him. Play with him. Maybe get him a friend.”
“Good idea. I can do that.” In for a penny, in for a pound.
“He’ll love having someone who can run zoomies with him, but it’s your decision.” The doctor filled out several things on the chart. “I have a lab here, I can take his blood and by the time you return from shopping, I’ll know if he’s clear for feline leukemia.”
“Okay, please do. I’ll run next door, then return for him—would you prefer me to pay first, or after I come back?”
“After you come back is fine.”
I patted Silver on the head. “I’ll be back, baby boy. I’m going to get you everything you need.” As I left the vet clinic, I realized that I felt happy. Happy like I did when I was around Fancypants. And it hit me—Fancypants needed me. And I needed him. And this was that same feeling. I hadn’t been able to save Sarah, but I had been able to rescue her kitten, and that made a gruesome day a little bit brighter.
