Lazarus and his "Transferring to the Banana."

To be quite honest about it, we’d forgotten about him entirely.

We did our civic duty, after Max had attacked him, this poor little kitten, in our backyard. At first, we thought he was dead. But, Amanda, who was the brave one, stepping forward and retrieving him from Max’s jaws, saw that he was breathing…barely.

Breathing enough, however, that he was more than agile and able enought to bite Amanda solidly on her finger. Not long after, she found herself in the emergency room, receiving a Tetanus shot. 

You may recall that we were turned away from the Vet School at MSU, and abruptly sent to another Vet’s office, way down 82 – the older version of the highway used mainly by elderly men who are never in a hurry and golfers who are.  The kitten, that we’d named Rasputin for all the obvious evil reasons, was left under the care of a Dr. L; I can’t tell you his whole name because I can’t spell it. It’s a little bit exotic a la Bulgarian and a little bit Willy Wonka a la Willy Wonka.

A couple of days ago, though, after the kitten had been gone for over two weeks, Amanda received a phone call.

“Your kitten is ready.”

“Excuse me,” she replied.

“That stray kitty that you brought in, with the collapsed lung? He’s fine now, completely fixed and ready to come back home.” (I still get tickled when adult people use the word ”kitty”).

“Oh…well, you see, we, uh, we thought…I mean, we don’t want another kitten. We’ve got a dog and a cat already, you see, and so…you know. We just wanted him to be healed, and make sure he was all right.”

The response to that: “Well, he is…and he can’t stay here.”

It was a short drive that took forever, going down 82, right to the county line, where devil kitty was. We pulled into the driveway, in Amanda’s black Fit, and nearly had one ourselves. We were nervous, anxiously snacking on our fears.

Genuine fears, I should add.  Ever shrouded by her Ivy League wisdom, Amanda suggested we assess the situtation.

So, we did. Here are the things we knew about Rasputin: 1) he was half-wild, half-evil, and a quarter kitten – was that too much?; 2) he was a quarter kitten, half-wide, and half-evil – was that enough?; 3) we didn’t want a kitten; 4) it was impossible to be half/half/quarter, anything, ever. Math just didn’t work that way…

…and 5) what if he weren’t cute anymore?  Cuteness is pretty much the most important factor in kittendom.

Two weeks was a long time, especially in the feline world; a lot of things could have gone wrong and vastly so. Chances were he’d grown even more feral while at the Vet’s, and no doubt, that would show, wouldn’t it?  His hair would be bristled, his eyes shot and angry, his claws…oh god, like midget hypodermic needles, and of course, further chances are he would remember us. Bitterly.

We couldn’t sit in the car all day, one way or the other, staring out at the pasture, where we’d temporarily cast our fears for better visibility.  There was plenty of room to lay them out in that pasture; nothing out there but a horse, what might pass for a cow, and the remains of a ’57 Chevy, minus the backend of the truck.

So, out we dragged our feet and headed to the front door.

Inside, the Vet’s office, though, let me tell you, was cleaner than most human doctors’ offices. I was pleased with that. It was the first time I’d actually seen the inside; I didn’t come with Amanda when she bravely brought the kitten here.  I was surprised that it was missing that animals-come-here-daily-with-vicious-sick smell. I approved of its absence, and yet, was somewhat suspicious of it, as well. Over in the corner stood what may very well be the smallest Yorkshire Terrier I’ve ever seen, of the four Yorkshire Terriers I’ve ever seen. He didn’t move, he didn’t growl, he didn’t bark.

He stared.

That made me very nervous. I don’t like it when dogs appear to be thinking. And he did appear to be thinking. All the while he was staring at me. I tried to stare back, but I was unable to. Instead, my neck became a bit like a bird’s, pivoting back and forth between the Vet Assistant at the sliding glass window/check-in desk and this minute Yorkie security guard.

Amanda had to pinch me to calm me down.

Enter the Vet, himself, the wizened old man from the Bulgarian Chocolate Factory. He was ridiculously interested in Amanda’s finger: did she get the shot, did she go immediately to the emergency room as encouraged, how was the finger now, could he see it, and so on.

He was pleased that she was somehow still alive and then said, “I didn’t want to scare you before, but one time, Charlie, who used to work here was bitten one time by a cat and I told him to rush to the hospital and get a shot, and he didn’t, for several days, and then when he did, they had to chop off the tip of his index so the bacteria wouldn’t get into his blood and kill him. Because that’s what the bacteria would do, from a cat’s mouth, anyway.”

A small pause.

“I’m so glad you listened.” He smiled and I’m sure he meant it, and Amanda was…well, quiet about the whole thing.

I was, naturally, riveted, at this point in the lecture. I knew rabies was bad, but my god, it could kill you? 

I worried extra-hard then about every stray animal I’ve ever touched, rescued, or looked at, despite the fact that I was apparently rabies-free. I also felt extra-sorry for that poor dog Atticus has to kill in To Kill A Mockingbird, but dear god, people back in his day had to have all their fingers…a lot more than people in my day seem to do…hell, all my students would need to hold onto would be their thumbs so they could text during class.  Or Twitter, I guess that’s the new “it” thing, right?

The lecture went on: Amanda was fortunate that she was bitten by a kitten and not the finger-destroyer that is the large, adult cat. The reason for this is that the kitten was too young to have eaten much. (What?) Adult feral cats would have collected unhealthy, bacteria-ridden tartar and plaque build-up on their teeth. That’s where the danger lies.

I didn’t even want to think about what all a feral cat would put in its mouth.

He continued: That’s what could have resulted had this kitten been older (he was barely 3-weeks old at the time), Amanda could have overlooked her festering wound (this is highly doubtful) and it could have gotten into her bloodstream and caused something that sounded like Acinetobacter or acetaminophen or some A-word…and probably died.

Well, thank god, the bite hurt. Otherwise, she may never have known. I mean anytime I get bitten, I just ignore it unless it hurts.

After class was over, Vet Assistant A brought out a carboard box that somehow was to be folded into a house, A-frame style. Emblazoned on the side of the box was CAUTION!  PRECIOUS CARGO HEADING HOME! I think this is when it hit me. There was no turning back, now. Ugly or cute, cuddly or wormy, lovable or satanic…we had a new kitten.

A kitten named Rasputin.

Then, Vet Assistant B rounded the corner and in her hands was a small pile of striped fur barely mewing above a whisper. She turned him around and I finally looked into his eyes, for the first real time and I fell. Head. Over. Heels. In. Love. with the blame thing.

His ears were too big, his eyes green and creamy, pulling away from his lower lids, were two black as mascara stripes that made him seem distant and romantic like Errol Flynn or Casanova. And right above his brow, were these two vertical lines that veritably screamed, “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. Demille.” He was, I could tell, a lover of the arts.

I only had to hold him a second. Amanda…she needed a little more coaxing. She was, I’m sure, recalling the whole trauma of the event from a perspective I didn’t share. Rasputin, as if sensing this trepidation, crawled over onto her shoulder, found a perch, and snuggled up under her neck.

The end was near.

After gushing, Amanda made an astute observation:  How could we continue to call this sweet, innocent, doe-eyed kitten, Rasputin.  

This kitten who was mean as the devil, bit everything in sight, couldn’t be tamed, wouldn’t be loved, hadn’t he all but died from meanness?

“Yes,” she said, “But he came back. And so, we should call him Lazarus, instead.”

If he hadn’t purred, right then, from his shoulder perch on Amanda, I would have hesitated.

Next, of course, came the real challenge: re-introducing him to Max, the dog who had nearly severed the small bridge of tissue between Lazarus’ lungs and esophagus (they’d hardly be willing to hang out together); letting Sugar set the routine for the household (she was after all the Alpha Cat and I was sure they’d hardly be willing out together, either); and getting him to transfer his kitty-aggression to a banana. (Amanda had already bought a selection of toys, a catnip banana was among them). When he starts in at the ankles, or the hands, we encourage him to “transfer to the banana.”

We’ve started using that phrase now on our friends, if they “get out of line.” Only two have, as of the publishing of this blog. 

And, so far, so good, sort of. He certainly has some anger-management issues to work on.  My ankles bear the initial verdict. But a re-trial was called, at the last minute, a governor’s reprieve, if you will, and…well…

…that jury is still out.

But the kitten…or I should say, Lazarus (Rasputin), he is still firmly, entirely, and safely in…the bathroom, for now.

Related Posts:

• Rasputin and the Fateful Finger Day
• I buried probably, like, a million birds as a child.
• I couldn’t see the title of the book so it must have been about Scientology.
• I know how to get a blame Diet Coke, thank you.
• Because hands can do everything but lie.

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