Okay, first of all, I have not dropped off the face of the earth. It's just there's this never-ending thing called "school", and while it typically involves learning, you can't wait for it to end. Now, learning, that's an continious process that's interesting and enjoyable...but, anyway... So, I haven't really had time to write. Not on here, anyway. And there hasn't really been that much of interest happening.
So it was definitely time for something to happen.
With working on studying for midterms next week, I needed a break, and it'd been a while since I'd visited Grandpa and Robbie. So I went over there for the night, we went and got some dinner and then set down to watch Robbie's favorite TV show, "Shark Tank". (It's kind of like "American Idol" for businesspeople, trying to sell their ideas for products and their companies, hoping to attract an important investor to help them grow.) There was this rodeo guy-turned fitness trainer trying to ply a workout system, we spent most of the show arguing about whether his claim that there's a certain heart-rate zone that's optimal for burning fat was true or not. (After checking with an expert, apparently it is.)
After that was over with, none of us were really paying attention to a "20/20" episode on the dangers of real estate, about 9:20 Tigger the elderly cat walks across the living room, and the dogs, who'd been extremely jumpy all night, tense up to get her.
Being closest to them, I pounce on Gretchen and haul her away to give Tigger a clear path to walk through. Fancy goes back to chewing her squeaky toy, and we all kind of relax. Well, Gretchen breaks loose of my grip and just nails Tig. Completely unprovoked, just out of maliciousness.
An quick sketch of the dogs' personalities: Fancy is a small gray-and-white Lhasa Opsa, pretty
self-sufficient, occasionally likes attention. Kind of a feline personality, in some ways. She LOVES playing with toys and going on car trips, and is Very Serious about her job as house security guard.
Gretchen is an all-black Shnauzer, extremely spoiled. Very much a Daddy's Girl, can't stand to be alone, has to have attention. Has an aggressive personality, a kill streak, though. And she's never liked Tigger at all, often thought about attacking her before.
Well, there's a blur of flying fur and scrapping noises, Fancy's trying to decide if she ought to join in. Robbie is freaking out, I'm trying to figure out what to do. Grandpa just leaps in and wrestles Gretchen away, keeping her still long enough for Robbie to get the cat. I scoop up Fancy to keep her from doing any more damage, it lasted maybe fifteen seconds.
An anxious Robbie inspects the damage, she's moaning in horrible pain, we all decide it's bad enough to call the vet. So we wait for an eleven-minute eternity until he calls back, says bring her in, don't wait til morning. So off we jump into the SUV and drive the half-hour to Stilwell. Tigger is in a crate the the back(One more traumatic stressful experience on top of another), I'm trying to calm her down, Grandpa's just trying to get us there as fast as possible, Robbie's worrying the whole way.
"It's just a cat." you might be saying right now. Well, you're right. And wrong. Very wrong.
Because, yes, she is just a cat. But also she's so much more than that for Robbie...
It was a cold, gusty, very dreary day in January 1995. And raining as only a miserable January rain can. A horrible day to do anything. Robbie pulls into the drive-in at the Beacon restaurant after a long day of teaching school, when she spots this tiny kitten huddled miserably up in a little ball, trying to protect itself from the chill. There's no way this cat will survive if somebody doesn't do something. So she somehow coaxes it close enough to grab and bring inside the car, intending to take care of it for a few weeks and then find a new home.
There was enough going on right then to add another animal to the house...her dad had just died about six weeks ago, trying to understand that. Which would be right about when this kitten was probably born...it just seemed kind of like a sign, she said.
She bottle-fed the kitten for about a week, took her to the vet in Tahlequah for a checkup, and, well...she got a name, Tigger, and just kind of became a part of the family.
A typical cat personality-wise, self-sufficient, occasionally chose to seek attention, but mostly just did her own thing. Eighteen years later, her arthritis was pretty bad, sometimes things were a little fuzzy, and most all her teeth couldn't chew very well, but when you're eighty-eight years old, things just aren't supposed to work as well as they once did, you're starting to wear out.
The vet was a friendly, quiet kind of guy in his mid-twenties, he checked Tigger over and pronouced that yes, her right front paw was broken. Or actually more like her wrist, 40% of the joints had snapped. After a kind explanation for the scared people about the different options of a cast or a splint, he suggested(I agreed with him) to go with a splint. It might delay the healing, and the bones would fuse either way, but that was a better risk to take than the possibility of an infection eating the entire leg underneath a cast.
He takes a few X-rays of the break, just to get a better look at what we're dealing with, he held the cat still while I snapped the pictures. Then he showed Grandpa where to give the painkiller shots for the next few days, along with instructions on how to try approaching the recovery, given her fragile state. After that he tried as best he could to answer Robbie's questions about Tigger's general welfare, on not eating dry food or not using the litter box.
(Her teeth's enamel has worn out completely, the mouth is so sensitive that without that protection, there's no way she would even try to chew. He suggested maybe dementia as for not using the box, which could be true, I guess. My reasoning on that one is simple: The litter box is in the garage, and you have to cross the kitchen to reach the trapdoor. Hardwood floors are tough to walk on, not much traction, and then concrete is awful on joints. And then once you reach the box you have to dig around...it's an act of self-preservation, not putting any more wear and tear on your body than you have to.)
We go back to the house, me and Grandpa trying to explain what he said, and attempting to calm both cat and owner down some. Also how to take care of the invalid, I whipped up a nice little spot in her favorite closet among the forest of cowboy boots, and then the food and water bowls were moved within easy reach. Dogs needed to be blocked out from upstairs, so finding something to put in the hallway. Puppy pads set in useful places, that kind of thing. It was a late night.
She seems to be doing well so far. The painkiller is working well, she's a little loopy, but lying still, so that's good. Robbie's been taking care of her today while Grandpa took a bunch of people on the bus to Tulsa for the WinterJam concert.
And I've just been sitting here in my dorm all afternoon/night trying to study and ignore the wet dreary March weather. Well, and typing this story.
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