Ageless Ida and Kitty, From the Archives

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Ida was sitting beside her daughter, waiting patiently, with Kitty nestled in her lap. Ida was my oldest client, a tiny, frail old lady with snow-white hair. She lived by herself, but her daughter, Lila, was close at hand. Lila was no spring chicken herself.

Ida drove until a couple of years ago. She had expressed her disappointment to me when they took her driver’s license away. She was fiercely independent, and she hated to have to impose herself on her daughter.

Kitty was an old tabby cat with a white blaze and a white chest. The record did not have a birth date for Kitty. That meant the girls probably disagreed with Ida’s guess. Maybe I should resolve that issue today.

Ida slapped at her daughter when Lila tried to help her stand up with Kitty. She also refused the helping hand offered by the girl showing her to the exam room. She ambled toward the exam room with measured steps and cradled Kitty in her arms.

“Kitty’s has not been feeling well for several days,” Ida said as she carefully positioned her on the exam table. “I had to crawl under my bed to get her this morning.”

I had to take a moment to process that statement. I am not sure I could crawl under a bed to retrieve a cat, and I am a young man. Imagining this frail little lady crawling under her bed was difficult to conjure up in my mind.

“Ida, you shouldn’t be doing that at your age,” I said. “You should get one of your grandsons to help.”

“They are always busy, and Lila is in worse shape than I am,” Ida said. “Besides, if you quit doing things for yourself, pretty soon, they stick you in one of those prisons that they call all sorts of fancy names today.”

“That’s pretty good advice,” I said. “Let’s look and see if I can find out what is wrong with Kitty.”

“Kitty is very old, she is 26 years old now,” Ida said.

“That is pretty old for a cat, are you sure of the date?” I asked.

“David, I got her as a kitten for my 70th birthday,” Ida said. “I should know her age. I named her Kitty because cats never pay attention to a name but always come when you call kitty.”

“I had no idea she was that old,” I said. “I don’t think I have seen another cat near that age. I did have a client who moved here from California with a 17-year-old cat. That cat aged 2 years every 3 months, according to the owner. It was 25 when he died a year later.”

“I have a picture of Kitty and myself at my birthday party,” Ida said. “That was the last birthday party I allowed Lila to give for me. They are sort of silly for old folks. They just use them as an excuse to take their picture with you. Just because you might not be around next year.”

Kitty was lying on the exam table, unmoving through all this discussion. I petted her head and then ran my hand down the length of her body. There was a bump when I cross her abdomen. I felt closer. It was a tumor, the size of an orange.

I looked at Ida, and she had a tear on her cheek.

“I felt it last week,” she said. “I prayed it would go away, but that didn’t help.”

“Sometimes, we can remove these with surgery,” I said. “That might be difficult at Kitty’s age.”

“No, I told her I wouldn’t let you do any of that to her,” Ida said, tears streaming down her cheeks now. “I don’t know what I am going to do without her, Doctor. She is all I have to talk with now, all my friends are long gone.”

Ida was purposely avoiding the discussion of euthanasia. I knew it had to be discussed, but I wanted her to bring it up. Maybe that wasn’t going to happen.

“You should get a new cat,” I said. “We could find you a kitten.”

“That wouldn’t be fair to the kitten, David,” Ida said. “I am not going to be around forever, you know.”

“You could have your Granddaughter help pick her out,” I said. “She could know that it would be her responsibility when the time came.”

“That might be a thought,” Ida said. “But what are we going to do with Kitty? I don’t want her to suffer.”

“Is she eating at all?” I asked.

“She has been under my bed for 3 days,” Ida said. “That is why I had to crawl under there to get her.”

“I think she waiting to die,” I said. “Maybe it is time we talk about making that an easy process for her.”

“Yes, I think that is what I thought when I called Lila this morning,” Ida said. “Then, I can take her home and bury her beside her favorite place in the back yard.”

“You should get one of your grandsons to help you with that chore,” I said.

“The ground is still soft, David,” Ida said. “I am not helpless. That is something I would like to do privately.”

“It will only take a moment for me to put her to sleep,” I said. “You can wait out front if you like, and we can bring her out in a small box.”

“I think she will like to be looking into my eyes when she goes, I will wait right here,” Ida said. “And I will take her home wrapped in her blanket. She would like it that way.”

And that is precisely how it was done. Ida carefully wrapped Kitty in her blanket and wiped a tear from her eye before gathering her into her arms.

“Thank you, David,” Ida said. “I will think about that kitten.”

I watched as Lila helped her mother out the door. Ida slapping at her as she tried to hold Kitty.

That was the last time I saw Ida. Her obituary was in the paper a few months later.

Photo by Belén Rubio from Pexels

It’s a Hard Job

 D. E. Larsen, DVM

I was finishing up in the surgery room when Sandy entered the room. 

“You have Pat in the exam room,” Sandy said. “She is worried that her new kittens are dying.”

“Tell her I will be just a couple of minutes,” I said. “I just have to clean up a bit.”

“I think you should come now,” Sandy said. “She was crying when she came through the door.”

So with my surgery gown, hood, and mask, I enter the exam room. Pat is seated in the chair, holding her two kittens and sobbing. The kittens look fine. I untied the top of my mask, so it hung from my neck.

“Oh, Doctor,” Pat said. “I’m so embarrassed. I thought these two were dying. My father cautioned me about distemper shots, and when I came home from shopping, these two were lying on the rug in the family room. They looked dead to me. I couldn’t believe it, and I didn’t want the girls to come home and find them. I just scooped them up into the carrier and ran down here. Then I sat down to wait, and they were up, wanting out of the kennel. I guess there is nothing wrong with them.”

“Well, there is no need to be embarrassed,” I said. “Let me get a look at them and make sure everything is okay. Then if they are fine, we can make this visit a vaccination visit. Your father was good to caution you.”

The kittens played and wrestled with each other and my hand while I looked them over.

“It looks like you have a couple of normal kittens,” I said. “Have they had any vaccinations yet?”

“No, I guess I didn’t know they needed any vaccinations,” Pat said. “Dad said if they get distemper, there isn’t much to do for them. He said he would see all the kittens in the barn wiped out from distemper when he was a kid.”

“It sounds like he grew up a lot like I did,” I said. “Barn cats were never vaccinated, and only the strong or the lucky survived. And even today, once a kitten this age gets distemper, there is often no saving them. It is not uncommon for a kitten to go from normal in the morning to dead in the evening. Their only defense is vaccinations.”

“Can you vaccinate them today?” Pat asked.

“Yes, I will give them their initial vaccines and deworm them,” I said. “Dixie and Sandy can talk to you about what you need to keep your fleas under control. Then we will look at them in 4 weeks for boosters, and we can talk about spaying or neutering them then.”

“We haven’t decided about neutering these two yet,” Pat said. “We think the girls would really enjoy raising a litter of kittens.”

“That’s fine, in my opinion, but I work with a couple of groups who deal with finding homes for many kittens every year,” I said. “They would shudder at your thoughts. Just make sure you have homes for all the kittens before you go down that path.”

We vaccinated the kittens with a combination vaccine for distemper and respiratory viruses. We also used a separate vaccine for the leukemia virus. Then I popped a worm pill down each kitten.

Have you got names for these two yet?” I asked.

“No, the girls are still arguing about the names,” Pat said. “We have only had for three days now, and I guess we are not really sure about who is the boy or the girl.”

I glanced at each kitten. They were both girls.

“They are both girls,” I said. “They are both calicoes. That is the first clue.”

“Oh, that might mean we could have a lot of kittens,” Pat said.

“Yes, a lot of kittens,” I said. “Sometimes you get lucky with a small litter, but I guess we see litters of 4 kittens most of the time. I have seen litters of seven or eight before. That could mean you would go from a population of two cats in the house to a bunch of ten to fifteen overnight. And that doesn’t even mention the hassle of a bunch of tomcats on your doorstep when these two come into heat.”

“Okay, we will take that into consideration,” Pat said. “And I promise you I won’t rush in here and disrupt your day again.”

“You don’t worry about this morning,” I said. “We all learn as we go along in this life. If you have an emergency, call if you can, but come in if you can’t. If you have any questions, we are here to help you out.”

“So then, just what was I seeing when I came home this morning?” Pat asked. “I mean, they really looked dead, or almost dead.”

“It’s a hard job, you know, being a kitten,” I said. “Kittens play hard, and then they sort of collapse and sleep however they hit the floor. You will likely see that again during the next few weeks. But next time, you will be prepared.”

Photo by Yayuk Lestari on Pexels.

Morris 

D. E. Larsen, DVM

The girls were all waiting for me when I came through the door after work.

“We have kittens!” they all screamed in unison.

“We have lots of kittens,” Amy said.

“Both Sam and Mittens had kittens,” Brenda said. “Sam only had one kitten, but Mittens had seven.”

“Come on, we will show you,” Amy said as she tugged my arm.

So off to the garage we went. Dee tagged along with the two older girls in the lead. 

Mittens was in her box, carefully tending to her large litter, and Sam was nearby with her single kitten. 

I grabbed Sam and palpated her abdomen to ensure there weren’t more kittens that didn’t make it out. No kittens in her belly.

“And look at Mitten’s white kitten,” Brenda said.

Sure enough, in the tangle of kittens was a white kitten.

“I think that is a siamese cross kitten,” I said as I picked it up and checked its sex. “He is a boy. We will keep this kitten; he will darken like a siamese as he gets a little older.”

“Mom said we are not to pick the kittens up,” Brenda said as I returned the kitten to the box.

“I get to do things sometimes that Mom says not to do,” I said.

We left the mothers with their kittens and returned to the house to prepare dinner. Sandy was just finishing up getting Derek fed and in his crib. I started putting together the dinner.

The girls were all atwitter about the kittens all through dinner.

“Can we check the kittens after dinner?” Brenda asked. 

“You can check them, but they need some privacy for a few days,” I said. “If you bother them too much, the mothers will move them. Maybe move them outside or hide them somewhere in the house.”

There was no slowing them down. The girls were done eating almost by the time Sandy got to sit down.

“Can we go check them now?” Brenda asked.

“You have to wait until Dee is ready to get down from the table,” I said. “And she will need some help washing up after dinner.” 

That would have been a chore from hell any other day, but Brenda rushed Dee to the kitchen sink to wash up her hands and face after she climbed down from the table. Then all three girls disappeared into the garage.

Amy was the first to return, almost out of breath from the excitement. 

“Sam stole the white kitten,” Amy said as Brenda and Dee rushed up behind her.

I got up and followed the girls to the garage. Sure enough, Sam had the white kitten snuggled up with her other kitten, and Mittens didn’t seem too bothered.

I picked up the white kitten and carefully returned him to his mother’s box.

“Why did she do that?” Brenda asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe Sam thought she could help Mittens out with her bunch. Now let’s all go back in the house and leave the kittens alone for the evening.”

I checked the kittens one last time before going to bed. Sure enough, Sam had the white kitten in her box. I was tempted to leave it, but I carefully returned it to Mittens.

“Sam really wants that white kitten,” I said to Sandy as we got into bed.

“Both Sam and Mittens are black. Maybe she just likes the contrast,” Sandy said.

“If it keeps up, I am just going to let her have it,” I said.

Sure enough, Sam had the white kitten when the girls checked the kittens in the morning.

“I think Sam is just helping Mittens out,” I said. “I think we will let her adopt this little white kitten,”

“Brenda wants to call him Morris,” Amy said.

So Morris was raised by Sam. Sam was happy, Morris had little competition for milk, and Mittens was not bothered by the loss.

***

When Morris and his litter mates were still nursing, we made our move from Enumclaw to Sweet Home. Because we were going to be in an apartment initially, our eleven cats were delivered to my folks in Myrtle Point until we were in a house.

At Myrtle Point, cats were not allowed in the house. So our cats became barn cats.

“Why won’t Grandma let the kittens live in the house?” Amy asked.

“Grandma was raised on a farm, and cats and kittens were always in the barn,” I said. “The kittens will be fine. The biggest risk will be if the older cats leave to try to find their way back to Enumclaw.”

“You mean they would run away from Grandma’s?” Brenda asked.

“It probably won’t happen, but it is possible,” I said. “We have no other choice. They will just have to make do with the barn.”

***

When we finally were settled in our house on Ames Creek, we made the trip to Myrtle Point to gather all the cats. By some miracle, they were all there. And they had no adjustment with the move back to Sweet Home.

“I think Morris likes to live outside,” Brenda said shortly after we had the cats back home.

“He grew up in the barn at Myrtle Point,” I said. “He probably likes the freedom.”

It was not long after that discussion, and Morris was gone. The girls were crushed. The days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months. 

Then one Saturday morning, we loaded everyone into the car to go to the lake for lunch. We were less than a quarter mile from the house when Amy screamed.

“There is Morris,” Amy said, pointing out the window. Morris was sitting in the middle of a cat road that led up to some timber.

I stopped the car and walked up the cat road for twenty yards.

“Kitty, kitty,” I called to Morris. 

Morris turned and ran into the brush.

“Was that him?” Brenda asked as soon as I got back in the car.

“I am pretty sure that was him, but he wasn’t interested in being caught,” I said.

***

After that sighting, we would see Morris on multiple occasions. He was apparently living in the timber not far from the house. He evidently had no interest in coming home.

That was until one Sunday morning. Amy heard a cat meowing at the front door. She opened the door, and it was Morris.

“Let me pick him up,” I said. “He might not be ready for any hugs yet.”

I petted Morris, and he purred but made no effort to move. I picked him up, and there was the reason that he came home. His right hind leg was broken, a mid-shaft fracture of his tibia. I took him into the house and closed the door.

“Morris has a broken leg,” I said. “At least he knew where to come for help.”

Morris made a trip to the clinic with me that Sunday afternoon, and I called Dixie to come in and give me a hand with the surgery. He was like the plumber’s pipes. If I didn’t repair his leg today, it might be several days before I had the time.

Fractured tibias were probably the easiest of the bones to repair. I used a combination anesthesia of xylazine and ketamine. Then I made a small incision at the fracture site and placed an inter-medullary pin into the bone in a retrograde manner. The entire procedure took less than a half hour.

“Are you going to get an x-ray?” Dixie asked as I placed Morris back in the kennel for his recovery.

“I feel good about how things went together,” I said. “And I don’t think there is any need to document my work. I doubt if the girls will sue me for malpractice.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Dixie said. “Those girls are all pretty fond of their cats.”

***

Morris healed well, and I removed the pin in six weeks, right on schedule. He was content to live in and around the house for the next fifteen years.

Photo by Amy Larsen.