This will be a serial. Charles Dickens did it. It’s so you’ll keep reading. Work with me. This is a very suspenseful story.
To set the stage:
One night it was New Year’s Eve and we were drinking boxed wine from the world’s largest brandy snifter and Quinn (zee grumble) was ruining Christmas and Jeremy was trying in vain to save it and at some point we noticed that a cat had come to the back door. It was cold, of course, snowy, and so we let it in and I followed my instincts, guided by something deep inside myself, and I promptly fried up some scrambled eggs. Jon noticed it had a wound and poured spearmint-scented rubbing alcohol on it. Other things happened also, and everyone fell into a deep slumber, leaving the salty kitchen and the pine-needled living room for the next day’s concern. No one really remembered the cat.
Until we did, because he came back (ha, like the song) and it turns out his wound was WAY grevious. He lifted up his head to Miaaaao and the entire underside of his neck and chin was ripped open, infected, and old-looking in a very gross and horrible way. He was obviously a very serious cat.
We were immediately saddened. We thought he might die, so we named him Wound Cat to avoid getting attached, and after the party guests bid us a sleepy farewell, Quinn, Erin, Kazia, Jon and I made a trip top Wal-Mart to buy the kitty-fixing supplies, realizing that the veterinarian wouldn’t be open on New Year’s Day– we would have to wait until the 2nd. We purchased the bare essentials: iodine, rubber gloves, kitty litter, and a disposable casserole dish for him to poop in for the night. We were concerned that we had a disposable cat on our hands, one that we just wanted to make as comfortable as possible until The End.
Many tense minutes later, Quinn and his assistants Erin and Kazia, the three of them gussied in some manner of strange makeshift vet dress, were knee deep in some brave backwoods cat surgery, which basically involved cleaning the grevious wound with much care, copious amounts of iodine, and shockingly little resistance. Everyone noted how well the operation went, and many mentioned that Quinn might consider becoming a large animal vet, or a cat vet at the very least, which he considered, smoking out on the cold back porch later that night, stroking his mustache with his free hand.
With the cat clean and warm and disinfected, we closed him in the downstairs bathroom where he could sleep quietly until morning, and we all went to bed a little bit worried that he’d be dead before we could whisk him safely to Dr. Bowman. His scared cries burrowed into my sad girl cat dreams that night. I wondered what would become of my new friend.
UNTIL NEXT TIME…….