Yesterday, Pete and I ran across the street to the grocery to grab some milk, orange juice, and a couple of things for dinner.
When we entered our building, Elise was standing in the doorway, looking panic-stricken.
My first thought was, "Crap. I forgot the ginger she asked me to get."
She ushered me and Peter into the entry and asked Peter to go to the kitchen. I dropped the four plastic bags of groceries on the floor.
Elise looked like she as about to cry as she led me to the living room and pointed out the sliding glass door.
A cat, mangled, crumbled like a wadded up piece of paper, was crouched under one of the chairs on the front patio. Dried blood smeared the tiles next to it.
"I don't know what to do," She said. "I think it's hurt."
I got down on the ground to better see the cat, but could no more see what might be wrong with than I could before, so I slowly opened the sliding glass door and the gate. The cat didn't move.
I got down on the ground next to it. By this time, the kids had become curious and had gradually migrated from the kitchen and began peppering Elise with questions.
When I got down on the ground next to him, he struggled to stand. He limped toward me and tried to rub his head on the sole of my shoe. Blood caked all its paws and covered its face. It only had one eye, but it was impossible to determine if its mangled face was a result of the accident that had brought it to our front patio or from something else that had happened before. What had happened? How did it get here?
Elise and I both hypothesized it'd been hit by a car, but how did it get over the wall in front of our house? It must have jumped the gate, I surmised, in one last adrenaline-fueled leap.
We got it a bowl of water, but it refused to drink. Then, we opened a can of tuna for it, but it wouldn't eat either.
Pete, inside, became upset, moved to the other room, and started to cry. Sam immediately comforted him, telling Pete everything was going to be okay.
Elise assured him the cat would be all right, but of course we had no reason to believe that. I asked the kids for a box, and they brought me a shoe box, then a plastic bin we lined with a piece of felt. I thought the best we could do was make him comfortable and see if he improved, but Elise texted a friend of her's, an animal advocate intent on saving every stray dog, cat, and camel in Amman. She gave us the name of a vet who we could take the cat to have it evaluated.
Elise found an old printer box big enough to put the cat in, and I carefully lifted him up and placed him inside. I don't think he could have jumped out even if he did show signs of resistance. There was definitely something wrong with one of his back legs; all the kids noticed the cat limping on it.
I ran downstairs to the garage and pulled the car around to the front. Elise handed me the box with the cat in it. Peter decided to come with me, to make sure the lid on the box stayed closed and the cat didn't decided to jump out in halfway to the vet's office and start hysterically clawing my eyes out while I was trying to drive.
Pete talked to the cat soothingly as we drove, and despite afternoon traffic, we soon found ourselves outside the vet's office. I wedged us into a parking spot just off the street, but when I went to open the door, I couldn't. I had literally wedged the car into the spot, and the two-foot high curb had trapped me in the car. Fortunately, Marino, a barber who was watching me struggle from the front window of his shop came out and offered me the spot in front. "Where are you trying to go?" he asked, eager to help, but struggling not to offend. "A veterinary office?" I offered. He pointed directly across the street to a small, non-descript, barely-labelled door squeezed between a lingerie shop and jeweler.
I thanked him, then got Pete and the cat out of the car. The vet's office was downstairs, in the basement of the building.
I walked up to the receptionist who asked me if this was the cat that got hit by the car. It was, I told her, then she proceeded to ask me a bunch of questions as though I were the cat's owner. How old is the cat? I don't know. I just found him. Was it male or female? I don't know. What kind of cat is it? Orange tabby, I guess. It's the only kind of cat I know besides Siamese, and it was orange.
I was rescued from further questioning by Dr. Naseen who guided me into the treatment room in perfect, unaccented English. I asked Pete if he wanted to come in, but he declined and stayed in the waiting room. As soon as Dr. Naseen reached into the box and pulled the cat out by the scruff of its next, I knew it was a good idea Pete had stayed outside. Even I was alarmed by the way he handled the cat. But his handling did seem to show he knew what he was doing.
He asked his helper, a small man who bore a striking resemblance to the ruthless Gestapo agent with the burned hand in Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark behind his wire-rim glasses, to hold the cat down why he pried its mouth open and extended each of its legs one by one.
Dr. Naseen was able to determine the cat had or once had an owner. The cat did indeed only have one eye, and it had been removed surgically. It also had a fractured skull, hence the blood running out of its nose, but he said there was nothing they could do for that; it would just have to heal on its own.
He said he would have to take an x-ray to determine what was wrong with the cat's leg.
I rejoined Peter in the waiting room who at this point was ready to buy a six-story carpeted playplace. Though I'm not sure if it was for Peter or the cat.
Moments later, Dr. Naseen beckoned me back to the examination room and tried to explain the cat had a damaged ligament in its knee that would require surgery. "Okay," I said, "How long would that take?"
"Two to three hours. It's a complicated surgery. And we can't do it now. You'd have to schedule it."
Elise and I had a 7:00 dinner reservation and it was already 5:30, so that was some relief.
But still didn't answer the questions of what we were going to do with this cat.
He scanned for a microchip, but couldn't find one. He said if we took the cat home and left him outside, he would likely suffer permanent damage to his knee. He needed to be immobilized before the surgery, then afterwards for two to three weeks. "Like in a box?" I asked.
"In a box or in a room."
I didn't like where this was going.
"How much is the surgery?" I next asked.
"320 JD." About $500.
Holy shit, I thought. And called Elise.
She immediately agreed we couldn't do that. Our best bet was to scour the neighborhood for flyers in hopes someone was searching for their lost cat.
We put the cat back in the printer box, and I paid for the x-ray, and Pete and I started heading home.
Peter was asking me a hundred questions I don't remember now. Mostly because my mind was occupied with what the heck we were going to do with this bloody, mangled cat. Not the least of which was, We're going to end up with this cat, aren't we? And, What are we going to name it? One-eyed Willy? "Can they clean him up any?" Elise had asked over text.
As we turned down the road to our building Elise called. "It's Dawn's cat!" she yelled into the phone.
"Who's Dawn?"
"Dawn! You know, Dawn! From upstairs!"
Upstairs?
Oh. My. God.
The cat had fallen four stories and landed on our patio.
I parked the car in front of the building and was met by Elise and Dawn's maid. We squeezed into the elevator and raced to the fourth floor where Dawn and her husband were waiting for us. Dawn was a mess. She was crying and could barely hold herself together.
I lifted the lid to the box, and Dawn peered in.
"That's not Lilly," she announced.
My heart sank.
"This cat has one eye," I told her, pointing at the cat.
After further examination, it was Lilly, we determined. Dawn explained to us, she had adopted the cat from the vet. The cat had run away from its previous owner before jumping or falling our a four-story window. "She really does have nine lives," Elise remarked, impressed.
"Well, it only has seven now," I quipped. Too soon, because her two kids entered just at that moment, and the daughter broke down, too.
It was time for us to go and get out of their way. After relating what Dr. Naseen had told me and explaining what they had done for the cat, Elise and I retreated from the apartment. I, for one, was incredibly relieved this cat was no longer our problem.
When we entered our building, Elise was standing in the doorway, looking panic-stricken.
My first thought was, "Crap. I forgot the ginger she asked me to get."
She ushered me and Peter into the entry and asked Peter to go to the kitchen. I dropped the four plastic bags of groceries on the floor.
Elise looked like she as about to cry as she led me to the living room and pointed out the sliding glass door.
A cat, mangled, crumbled like a wadded up piece of paper, was crouched under one of the chairs on the front patio. Dried blood smeared the tiles next to it.
"I don't know what to do," She said. "I think it's hurt."
I got down on the ground to better see the cat, but could no more see what might be wrong with than I could before, so I slowly opened the sliding glass door and the gate. The cat didn't move.
I got down on the ground next to it. By this time, the kids had become curious and had gradually migrated from the kitchen and began peppering Elise with questions.
When I got down on the ground next to him, he struggled to stand. He limped toward me and tried to rub his head on the sole of my shoe. Blood caked all its paws and covered its face. It only had one eye, but it was impossible to determine if its mangled face was a result of the accident that had brought it to our front patio or from something else that had happened before. What had happened? How did it get here?
Elise and I both hypothesized it'd been hit by a car, but how did it get over the wall in front of our house? It must have jumped the gate, I surmised, in one last adrenaline-fueled leap.
We got it a bowl of water, but it refused to drink. Then, we opened a can of tuna for it, but it wouldn't eat either.
Pete, inside, became upset, moved to the other room, and started to cry. Sam immediately comforted him, telling Pete everything was going to be okay.
Elise assured him the cat would be all right, but of course we had no reason to believe that. I asked the kids for a box, and they brought me a shoe box, then a plastic bin we lined with a piece of felt. I thought the best we could do was make him comfortable and see if he improved, but Elise texted a friend of her's, an animal advocate intent on saving every stray dog, cat, and camel in Amman. She gave us the name of a vet who we could take the cat to have it evaluated.
Elise found an old printer box big enough to put the cat in, and I carefully lifted him up and placed him inside. I don't think he could have jumped out even if he did show signs of resistance. There was definitely something wrong with one of his back legs; all the kids noticed the cat limping on it.
I ran downstairs to the garage and pulled the car around to the front. Elise handed me the box with the cat in it. Peter decided to come with me, to make sure the lid on the box stayed closed and the cat didn't decided to jump out in halfway to the vet's office and start hysterically clawing my eyes out while I was trying to drive.
Pete talked to the cat soothingly as we drove, and despite afternoon traffic, we soon found ourselves outside the vet's office. I wedged us into a parking spot just off the street, but when I went to open the door, I couldn't. I had literally wedged the car into the spot, and the two-foot high curb had trapped me in the car. Fortunately, Marino, a barber who was watching me struggle from the front window of his shop came out and offered me the spot in front. "Where are you trying to go?" he asked, eager to help, but struggling not to offend. "A veterinary office?" I offered. He pointed directly across the street to a small, non-descript, barely-labelled door squeezed between a lingerie shop and jeweler.
I thanked him, then got Pete and the cat out of the car. The vet's office was downstairs, in the basement of the building.
I walked up to the receptionist who asked me if this was the cat that got hit by the car. It was, I told her, then she proceeded to ask me a bunch of questions as though I were the cat's owner. How old is the cat? I don't know. I just found him. Was it male or female? I don't know. What kind of cat is it? Orange tabby, I guess. It's the only kind of cat I know besides Siamese, and it was orange.
I was rescued from further questioning by Dr. Naseen who guided me into the treatment room in perfect, unaccented English. I asked Pete if he wanted to come in, but he declined and stayed in the waiting room. As soon as Dr. Naseen reached into the box and pulled the cat out by the scruff of its next, I knew it was a good idea Pete had stayed outside. Even I was alarmed by the way he handled the cat. But his handling did seem to show he knew what he was doing.
He asked his helper, a small man who bore a striking resemblance to the ruthless Gestapo agent with the burned hand in Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark behind his wire-rim glasses, to hold the cat down why he pried its mouth open and extended each of its legs one by one.
Dr. Naseen was able to determine the cat had or once had an owner. The cat did indeed only have one eye, and it had been removed surgically. It also had a fractured skull, hence the blood running out of its nose, but he said there was nothing they could do for that; it would just have to heal on its own.
He said he would have to take an x-ray to determine what was wrong with the cat's leg.
I rejoined Peter in the waiting room who at this point was ready to buy a six-story carpeted playplace. Though I'm not sure if it was for Peter or the cat.
Moments later, Dr. Naseen beckoned me back to the examination room and tried to explain the cat had a damaged ligament in its knee that would require surgery. "Okay," I said, "How long would that take?"
"Two to three hours. It's a complicated surgery. And we can't do it now. You'd have to schedule it."
Elise and I had a 7:00 dinner reservation and it was already 5:30, so that was some relief.
But still didn't answer the questions of what we were going to do with this cat.
He scanned for a microchip, but couldn't find one. He said if we took the cat home and left him outside, he would likely suffer permanent damage to his knee. He needed to be immobilized before the surgery, then afterwards for two to three weeks. "Like in a box?" I asked.
"In a box or in a room."
I didn't like where this was going.
"How much is the surgery?" I next asked.
"320 JD." About $500.
Holy shit, I thought. And called Elise.
She immediately agreed we couldn't do that. Our best bet was to scour the neighborhood for flyers in hopes someone was searching for their lost cat.
We put the cat back in the printer box, and I paid for the x-ray, and Pete and I started heading home.
Peter was asking me a hundred questions I don't remember now. Mostly because my mind was occupied with what the heck we were going to do with this bloody, mangled cat. Not the least of which was, We're going to end up with this cat, aren't we? And, What are we going to name it? One-eyed Willy? "Can they clean him up any?" Elise had asked over text.
As we turned down the road to our building Elise called. "It's Dawn's cat!" she yelled into the phone.
"Who's Dawn?"
"Dawn! You know, Dawn! From upstairs!"
Upstairs?
Oh. My. God.
The cat had fallen four stories and landed on our patio.
I parked the car in front of the building and was met by Elise and Dawn's maid. We squeezed into the elevator and raced to the fourth floor where Dawn and her husband were waiting for us. Dawn was a mess. She was crying and could barely hold herself together.
I lifted the lid to the box, and Dawn peered in.
"That's not Lilly," she announced.
My heart sank.
"This cat has one eye," I told her, pointing at the cat.
After further examination, it was Lilly, we determined. Dawn explained to us, she had adopted the cat from the vet. The cat had run away from its previous owner before jumping or falling our a four-story window. "She really does have nine lives," Elise remarked, impressed.
"Well, it only has seven now," I quipped. Too soon, because her two kids entered just at that moment, and the daughter broke down, too.
It was time for us to go and get out of their way. After relating what Dr. Naseen had told me and explaining what they had done for the cat, Elise and I retreated from the apartment. I, for one, was incredibly relieved this cat was no longer our problem.
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