Poor, Poor Molly

...So poor Molly was found under the back steps.  Granted, dead is dead, but still we hurried to the site.  Even in death, it is nice to have recognition and dignity.  We carried her limp body into the garage...

     As we entered the garage, however, one eye slowly opened, and then the other. 

     “She’s had a stroke!  That must be it.” I said.  My partner agreed.                       

     “Keep her warm,” Amy said.  Should we call the vet?”

     As we dithered, I cobbled together a soft nest for the cat.  She lay lax and immobile.

     “There,” I encouraged her as I cuddled her into her new bed.

     “Meow,” she replied, stretched, shook herself and began to explore her new home.

     Again we dithered but, this time, as to whether or not we should adopt her.  “No” we agreed.  “She belongs to somebody else.”  But, “Yes,” we added, “they’re really not taking care of her.  Her coat’s practically a solid lump.  It’s got to be painful.”  We had noticed that she was unable to lie in any position other than on her stomach.

     “We’ll split the difference,” we decided.  “We’ll get her groomed.”

     The next day, we delivered her to the salon in our previous cat’s carrying case and headed back home. The phone rang as we were pulling into the driveway.  “Come and get this cat!” said a very upset voice. “She’s bitten me and she’s clawed my husband and now she’s in the back of the cage huffing and puffing and hissing.”

     We collected Molly, who quite docilely high stepped out of the basket, blinked at both of us and marched out of the room.

     The weather remained balmy and she began sleeping on our doorstep – but always on her stomach. Finally we decided, “We can’t leave this poor cat in this terrible condition.  She’s got to be groomed.”

     A visit to the vet, however, assured us that grooming would not be possible.  Molly needed to be shaved - she needed to start afresh.  But, of course, that would necessitate an anesthetic.  We consulted and decided and over three hundred dollars later, the now nearly naked cat returned home.  They had removed all but four furry cuffs around her paws but had managed, somehow, to salvage her full, busy tail.    

     Almost immediately, the weather turned cold.  Molly needed to stay inside and so she did – shivering and shaking, shunning a hot water bottle and refusing to eat or drink.                                      

     “We’ve killed the cat,” we wailed at each other.  The next day, we phoned the vet.

     “Give Molly another twenty-four hours and then call us,” she said.

     As I dialed, the next afternoon, “She’s drinking!  She must have heard you – she’s decided - she’s never going back there, again,” called my partner

...... continued ......