Learning to Live Together
Needy as this little girl was at times, she had a wild streak in her too. Well, of course, being a street cat, she hadn't been socialized much towards humans. She had a propensity for biting and scratching when you'd least expect it. She'd be sitting on my lap, turning her head this way and that for a scratch, put her chin up for that to be scratched too. Next thing I knew, she'd grab my hand between her paws and bite the heck out my hand -- when I pulled away, she'd scratch me. There was a lot of bloodletting in those early days and I'd most often be going about with two or three bandaids on my hands and arms. I soon learned the signals and kept my hands behind her head when I was petting her; the minute I saw her tail start twitching a certain way, I'd get her off my lap or move away from her as quickly as I could. Her teeth were sharp enough but her nails were like needles puncturing under my fingernails or raking down my arm. Occasionally -- two years later -- she will still attempt to bite me. It's done wonders for my reflexes which I had heretofore worried about losing. At times, when I'm sitting at my desk working, she'll jump on the desk (in front of my computer screen, of course), and I'll start petting her. If I'm distracted and peering around her trying to continue working, she'll suddenly jump at me, mouth open, ready to take a chunk out of me. I move back very quickly and tell her to get down. She does seem to understand the "get down" command really well and will most often jump down as soon as she's attempted to bite or scratch -- she knows the drill! The only other person she's scratched in her time with me -- was a vet at the emergency pet clinic; that person deserved it.
Winnie had been in the livingroom, playing with her "fling-a-ma-string", a battery operated toy that hooks over the door and (gently but quickly) throws out a string. She loved that toy and spent hours playing with it - trying to catch the string or attempting to hold onto the string if she did catch it. Not sure exactly what happened this day; I had stepped into the bathroom when Winnie darted in and out of the bathroom, and proceeded to race around the apartment. Well ok, cats play - but there was something not quite right about this running. I quickly came out and attempted to coax her over to me. She huddled up into a corner and I went over to see what was wrong. Her left eye was tearing so badly, water running down her face and into her fur. Every now and then, she'd take a swipe at her eye and try to rub it but this seemed to cause pain. I opened her eyelid thinking something might have flown into her eye, but couldn't see anything. Nevertheless, she was injured so... called my friend Marg, called the emergency vet clinic and away we went. The vet was a sturdy, no-nonsense, gruff woman who examined Winnie (gently enough), put drops in her eyes and had me look through the eye scope (or whatever) so I could see the long, fairly deep scratch across the cornea. She gave me some antibiotic drops and told me to put cool compresses on her eye every few hours after the drops. Now, I had taken Win out of her little crate for the examination and when I went to put her back in, she fought with me -- wiggling this way and that -- she wasn't used to the crate yet and it had taken me 20 minutes to get her into it in the first place. I asked the vet to close the door to the examining room in case Winnie bolted; instead of complying with this simple request, the vet came up behind Winnie, grabbed her out of my hands and attempted to stuff her into the crate -- unceremoniously and very roughly. Winnie jumped around and just raked both paws across the woman's arm -- from elbow to fingers. Vet let go of her muttering "why you little...." Winnie ran out the still open door of the room and down the hallway with that woman hot on her trail. I wasn't far behind. Win ran into another examining room and hid under a chair - vet started getting down to grab her and I told her to stop - leave her alone, I'll get her. Poor little thing was so scared (Winnie, that is); I talked softly to her and reached under the chair to pet her... she came to me and let me carry her back to her crate; went in no problem and darned happy to be there! When we got home, I took down the toy off the door 'cause I was pretty sure that had caused the injury. Winnie panicked when I walked past her with the toy, sealing my certainty that it had been the culprit.
Winnie's been examined by many vets since that time and has never scratched or bitten any of them (although I've been tempted to do both to a few of them). The reasons for her many vet experiences are relayed in the next chapter, but for now she was a healthy, sassy little cat. Had a good appetite, went from a seven pound straggly little girl to a 10 pound growing concern over the course of seven months; groomed herself regularly and thoroughly; had boundless energy -- from 2 a.m. to 5 a.m., of course! She was certainly thriving! It became apparent, when she grew out of her little pod bed and her cat crate, that she wasn't nearly the age given by the SPCA -- they're forgiven, as you can't tell a cat's age by counting teeth. Dr. Judy estimated she would have been just over a year old when I got her; by all accounts, still a kitten.
Winnie had been in the livingroom, playing with her "fling-a-ma-string", a battery operated toy that hooks over the door and (gently but quickly) throws out a string. She loved that toy and spent hours playing with it - trying to catch the string or attempting to hold onto the string if she did catch it. Not sure exactly what happened this day; I had stepped into the bathroom when Winnie darted in and out of the bathroom, and proceeded to race around the apartment. Well ok, cats play - but there was something not quite right about this running. I quickly came out and attempted to coax her over to me. She huddled up into a corner and I went over to see what was wrong. Her left eye was tearing so badly, water running down her face and into her fur. Every now and then, she'd take a swipe at her eye and try to rub it but this seemed to cause pain. I opened her eyelid thinking something might have flown into her eye, but couldn't see anything. Nevertheless, she was injured so... called my friend Marg, called the emergency vet clinic and away we went. The vet was a sturdy, no-nonsense, gruff woman who examined Winnie (gently enough), put drops in her eyes and had me look through the eye scope (or whatever) so I could see the long, fairly deep scratch across the cornea. She gave me some antibiotic drops and told me to put cool compresses on her eye every few hours after the drops. Now, I had taken Win out of her little crate for the examination and when I went to put her back in, she fought with me -- wiggling this way and that -- she wasn't used to the crate yet and it had taken me 20 minutes to get her into it in the first place. I asked the vet to close the door to the examining room in case Winnie bolted; instead of complying with this simple request, the vet came up behind Winnie, grabbed her out of my hands and attempted to stuff her into the crate -- unceremoniously and very roughly. Winnie jumped around and just raked both paws across the woman's arm -- from elbow to fingers. Vet let go of her muttering "why you little...." Winnie ran out the still open door of the room and down the hallway with that woman hot on her trail. I wasn't far behind. Win ran into another examining room and hid under a chair - vet started getting down to grab her and I told her to stop - leave her alone, I'll get her. Poor little thing was so scared (Winnie, that is); I talked softly to her and reached under the chair to pet her... she came to me and let me carry her back to her crate; went in no problem and darned happy to be there! When we got home, I took down the toy off the door 'cause I was pretty sure that had caused the injury. Winnie panicked when I walked past her with the toy, sealing my certainty that it had been the culprit.
Winnie's been examined by many vets since that time and has never scratched or bitten any of them (although I've been tempted to do both to a few of them). The reasons for her many vet experiences are relayed in the next chapter, but for now she was a healthy, sassy little cat. Had a good appetite, went from a seven pound straggly little girl to a 10 pound growing concern over the course of seven months; groomed herself regularly and thoroughly; had boundless energy -- from 2 a.m. to 5 a.m., of course! She was certainly thriving! It became apparent, when she grew out of her little pod bed and her cat crate, that she wasn't nearly the age given by the SPCA -- they're forgiven, as you can't tell a cat's age by counting teeth. Dr. Judy estimated she would have been just over a year old when I got her; by all accounts, still a kitten.