A Cat Post, finally.

Thought it was time a blog with a cat name had a cat-related post.

Took my Weaver to the vet yesterday; he had a boo boo on his face, big round spot without hair that occasionally bled from the center. I was worried -- I thought maybe some form of cancer?

It was his teeth. Poor old guy only has two teeth left -- his lower right canine and his upper left canine (his fangs). Turns out that lower right fang was pressing against, and eventually piercing, the gumline directly above it, causing a cut, an infection, and now an abcess that's draining out the top rather than into the mouth -- go figure. So we've got antibiotics to take, and if that doesn't do the trick, the vet will go in and pull his remaining teeth. Guess he'll just have to gum all his enemies into submission.

Weaver's had a rough life. He's about 17 now. I got him from BoCoHuSo -- the Boone County (Missouri, so it's actually "BoCoMoHuSo") Humane Society. He'd been found in a ditch on the side of the road where he'd been tossed. Their vet said someone had tortured him -- hit him with a baseball bat-like object and broken his pelvis, cut off the tip of his tail with a knife, a few other injuries as well.

The folks at the Humane Society were pretty sure no one would want him, and planned to euthanize him -- after all, he was about a year and a half old, well past his "cute" kitten stage, he'd been injured in such a way that there was no telling what the long term effects could be (the biggest worry was that he'd be incontinent from the pelvic damage), and how on earth could an animal who'd been that abused ever make a good house pet? Plus, he was pretty ugly -- the tip of that amputated tail was still attached by a thin strip of skin, and was just hanging there rotting off; his face was off-kilter from being hit with something, and he just looked (and smelled) pretty bad.

The day after he'd been turned in to the HuSo, I was visiting the facility and went into the cat room. There were lots of pretty cats, lots of scared cats, lots of friendly cats -- and then there was this black and white tuxedo cat with a little Charlie Chaplin moustache watching me from the floor of his cage in the corner. I didn't realize that that line of cages was death row, I just thought he'd been isolated because of his injuries -- it was obvious he'd been injured.

I walked around the room, saying hi to some of the cats I'd met on other visits, taking them out and petting them, talking to them, stroking them. I ended up in the corner with the black and white cat, and thought, well, let's take him out of his cage and give him a cuddle, he looks lonely over here all alone. I didn't realize his pelvis was broken and he probably shouldn't be moved, I just scooped him up and held him.

And he purred. Hard.

He kneaded my arm so intensely he drew blood through my cardigan. He snuggled close and even wiggled one leg until it was inside my shirtfront. Then he gave a huge sigh and relaxed, still purring, and fell asleep on my lap.

I'll admit it, I was moved. But I was in grad school, I already had 3 cats, and I wasn't in the market for another one -- this was strictly a visit, not an adoption trip. Still, I thought, it won't hurt to sit here a while and hold him while he sleeps (and purrs). So I did.

After awhile, I stood up and started to lay him back in his cage. By now, I'd read the card on the cage door that explained about his multiple broken bones, so I was trying to be very gentle (and kicking myself for moving him in the first place). He barely woke up as I moved, just made a little "hmph" noise and tried to settle deeper into my arms. But I slowly peeled him off me and got him back into the cage. He was still purring.

Just then a little girl, maybe 4 or 5 years old, came screaming into the room. I don't know what kind of sugar high this kid was on, but it ought to be illegal in most states. She was careening around the room, yelling, "Kitties, Kitties! Mommy come look at the kitties!" Her exhausted looking Mommy dragged into the room behind her and said, "Yes, honey, but we can only take one, remember? Which one do you want?" The child let out a piercing scream (of joy, I presume, but it could have been a scream designed to attract fruit bats for all I know -- or maybe she just wanted to see how much glass she could shatter) and started running from cage to cage, pointing her nasty grubby little finger at a series of terrified cats: "Mommy, I want *this* kitty! Mommy, I want *this* kitty!" The cats reacted, uniformly, by arching, spitting, and hissing at the evil child, who got louder and louder with each demand.

I didn't have the black and white cat's cage door quite closed when this demon-spawn came racing over and squealed, "Mommy, I want *this* kitty!" -- then jammed her snot-covered finger directly in the cat's face.

I tensed, prepared to intercept the cat before he could rip her face off (not that I would have blamed him), but instead, this battered, injured, ugly, smelly old cat reached out one single paw and gently patted the little girl's outstretched finger. And he kept purring.

Even Baby Satan was stilled by this act of grace. "Mommy," she breathed, "I *do* want this kitty." It was one of those moments, those moments when you're sure you're seeing spirit in action, when all that's good and generous and gentle in the world shows itself, and you feel you're a better person for having seen it.

And I looked the trembling tot right in her innocent china-blue eyes and said, "You can't have him, he's mine."

And that's how I got Weaver. He's named Weaver because he weaves when he walks -- that broken pelvis never did heal quite right. But he wasn't incontinent, either, and the end of the tail came off just fine -- he's never seemed hampered by having a tail half as long as it should have been, either. And he still purrs like a motor boat, any time anyone comes near him (even the vet).

He's had more problems over the years -- he's rebroken the pelvis twice, he got early arthritis, he's had a series of respiratory infections, and now, of course, the whole tooth abcess thing -- but he's happy, even when he's sick or hurting. He loves his life, he loves me, he loves his kitty brothers and sisters, he loves his dinners and his naps and the patch of sunlight that comes in through the window over the stairwell. He's had a good life. And he's shared all that with me, and I'm so grateful to him.

I sometimes think about that grubby little girl at the Humane Society that day. She'd be a sophomore in college by now. Well, more likely she's working at the local Hooters restaurant, saving up money for that tongue-piercing she's always wanted. Still, I'd like to thank her for being such a frighteningly obnoxious little thing, and forcing me to adopt a cat I didn't think I wanted. She saved his life, in a roundabout way, and that's gotta go down in her permanent record as a Good Deed, don't you think?