S.R. Wild: Artist and Graphic Designer

Cat Found

The other morning I woke up to the sound of snorting and wheezing. I was surprised to find I wasn’t alone. Someone, or something, was in my bed with me. Then, like most mornings, the events of the previous night came flooding back to me. No, I didn’t bring an asthmatic trollop with a deviated septum home for a one night stand.

I received a phone call the previous night from Eva the Deadbeat requesting an odd favor—my favorite kind. The cat-loving folks at SpielPalast Cabaret found a stray cat roaming around where they were rehearsing. They thought he was dying because he was snorting and wheezing. Being so late, the animal shelter wasn’t open and no one else could take him. She asked if I could take the cat until they figured out what to do with him in the morning. I said, “suuuure.”

I drove down, got some supplies, picked up the cat, and brought him home. He wasn’t too happy about being in the cat carrier, so I quickly cleared an area for him in my kitchen and setup the litter box. I let him out and he went straight to the litter box—he was obviously domesticated.

It was suggested that I confine him to a room. I made do by blocking off a good-sized area in my kitchen. I gave him some food, hung out with him a bit, and went back to work. Other than the snorting, he seemed fine to me. I got the feeling it was normal for him.

After a few minutes he started crying. I checked on him, he stopped, and I went back to work. This went on a few more times until he escaped his little room. He quickly made himself at home in my apartment and was very friendly to me. He hung out with me while I worked and even jumped on my lap.

When I finally went to bed, he hopped on my bed and curled up next to me. I didn’t sleep much that night because he was making all these weird noises and, being such a worrier, I kept checking on him to make sure he wasn’t dying.

The next day, the animal shelter said they couldn’t take him until mid-June, so it looked liked I’d have him for awhile. We took him to the vet to have him checked out. Other than being dirty, fleas, and an infection he was fine (we also found out the cat was male, we named him Tom Doe). The snorting, wheezing, and oozing eyes are normal, but the infection was making it worse. She gave us some pills and some eye cream. The eye cream was very difficult to give him.

He inherited all the negative traits of an exotic shorthair—why must people mess with nature. He doesn’t have a muzzle, his eyes stick out further than his nose. He snorts because he’s nostrils are too small so he has to breath through his mouth. He’s lower jaw sticks out further than his upper jaw so his tongue is always sticking out. He has a hard time eating because his face is so flat. He ate by mashing his face into his food. Eventually the food would become too flat for him to get to and I’d have to pile it back up for him.

When Tom and I returned home after the vet he wasn’t in a good mood. He was pacing and making more noise then usually. He was doing his usually snorting along with a squeaking and farting noise all at the same time. He also made that distinct cat-going-to-vomit noise and then vomited on the floor. All the excitement must of made him sick. When I talked to the vet, she said cats have a stressful time at the vet because of all the pheromones left by other cats that tell them “bad things happened to kitties here”—I wonder if that happens with humans too.

I hung posters around town the other day—yes, I realize taddy should be tabby. While I was hanging one, some drunk asked what kind of show I was doing. I told him it was an all cat band. He then asked if he could get drunk there. I said he could try. Idiot.

The next day, Eva received a lot of calls from sketchy people offering to take the cat (sorry, I should have given my number). They probably thought they could make some money by selling him. One guy called who had Tom for the past few months. He found him at the bottom of his stairs one day. Tom ran up the stairs and started scratching at this guy’s door. He became sort of a mascot at his and his roommate’s apartment. He’s in a mural some friends painted on the wall. They thought he was a she, yet named him Sir Carl of Windsor. A week or so ago, he somehow escaped from their second floor apartment. A friend of his saw the poster and called him. This morning, Tom… Carl, was picked up and went back home.

Despite being so noisy and high maintenance, I must say, I’m going to miss him. I realize how dumb that sounds because he was only here for a few days, but he sort of grew on me and I easily become attached to things. It was… dare I say it… yes, I will… it was cute that he followed me around, greeted me at the door when I’d come home, and put his paw on my face in the morning. It’s too quite around here tonight. I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep alone tonight.

Now that I’ve caught up on my blogging, I’m going to try and catch a few hours of catless sleep. I need to be well rested for tomorrow because I’m going to Body Worlds. Oh yeah.

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