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.

Me, Sugar, Max, and, a gin and tonic.

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.

Customer Service, 24/7, except on Mondays-Thursdays.

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.

Here he is. Nothing but a pound and a half of sass.

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.

I don’t have many great qualities, I’d imagine (for instance, I find it increasingly difficult to even get a date, so I’m tempted to say that I must be lacking some crucial quality – unfortunately, it’s a temptation I never give into. I know better).

What I do have, and consider a good thing to have, is a large, uncontrollably malleable heart. Even if it’s quite a fault of mine to have it, a liability.

It’s still not the worst thing to have.

Attention: Will Robinson and The Clever Kris

Then, again, I’m also ignorant about a great many things, and most often, after the initial shock of owning so much pathos, I tend to hole away again into my own, insular world.  So, no loss is ever that greatly overwhelming, except death, antithetical cliches, and poorly played tennis matches. (i.e., a missed dating opportunity, small potatoes; a grocery store out of small potatoes when I want potato salad, devastating).

I know it’s not going to come across this way, upfront, my big heart, etc. in today’s blog, perhaps…since, one of the two kittens in question attacked Amanda, the other day, sending her to the fate of a Tetanus shot, but “hold off the earth” your criticism, for awhile, to paraphrase the Bard.

What you should know, first, about the cat attack: Max, the dog, was let into the backyard, which is his backyard, and there, underneath the last step, were two kittens, kittens that had appeared from nowhere but out of the calm green grass, and there they were sitting, the two kittens, as was told to me, like a planned lolcat photo op, by the bicycle.

Max, of course, immediately fell under the impression that he’d been given the greatest gift of all: toys that were alive with fur and embedded noisemakers, like his stuffed polar bear. Amanda barely rescued one kitten from his vice-like jaws; this is the kitten that bit her so maliciously on her pinkie…and maybe, we’re not sure, somehow on her wrist.  

The other “kitteh” got away…and, we thought, would stay there.

Amanda, whose heart is, admittedly, only slightly larger than mine, due to a misshapen left aorta, I believe, (that’s what I tell myself) took the helpless, strikingly demoralized kitten to the Vet School, here on campus. I must say, here and now: I find it rather ironic that several blogs back I was bragging about the stewardship of this school and program, and yet, here they were, unwilling to assist; they wouldn’t help Amanda at all. Not really.  

Instead, she was referred to another veterinarian’s office; he was also irate.  Not at her, but at their inability to offer the very assistance they should be offering in order to better learn their craft. What few options they gave Amanda were ridiculously expensive.  That, or, euthanization. 

I was, then, via proximity of incident and the ridiculously-expensive-options only rule, irate as well.

This other vet, though, has done the right thing, mostly, in my opinion. He has been nursing this ravaged kitten ever since that Fateful Finger Day. He called yesterday to say several things:  1) the hole in the kitten’s side had healed; 2) his lung had reconstituted and his diaphragm was not, after all, damaged; 3) he had finally decided he was hungry enough to eat; 4) the quarantine was in effect and working well; and 5) when would be taking him home, please?

Amanda said, Well, could you put a collar on him and perhaps, neuter, him, first, and then we’d bring him home and go from there.

The vet said that it would take 10-14 days post-quarantine before he could neuter the poor, feral, pure evil, vicious, frightened, intimidated feline that we’d taken already, around the house, to calling, affectionately, Rasputin. The tone of his voice said more than enough. Neuter him on our own time.

He’s been poked, needled, fed, stitched, prodded and watered, the vet continued. He’d also bitten a vet assistant who had attempted to pet him.

I’m pretty sure I think I love this kitten.

I’m not sure, however, what will happen to him, even after we bring him home, as we’ve all but flat-out decided to do that.  If nothing else,I reasoned, our house was where his people were, right? It might give him a better leg-up to return to his homeplace and start from scratch here. It made sense to me.

There were several kittens under there, originally, and for safety’s sake, we called the Humane Society; our neighbor has a crackhouse of cats, apparently. The congregate, they do their “drugs,” they kill a few birds, no cockroaches, though, I should point out, and they hang around in the yard, all damn day and night.

The Humane Society, like cats themsevles, came, in the still of the night, apparently, because all the kittens were gone the next morning. Sigh. Of course…he has no people now.

Or, so, we thought…

…until last night, when I was taking a much deserved bath, propping my sore ankle over the side of tub to let it wrap itself in steam. The other kitten, the one we thought had run away, seems to have come back; it’s like, almost right out of the Bible – 99 sheep lay down to sleep, or whatever, but one wanders off and you really only want the one that went away.  (This is my version of that shepherd story because truth be known, I worried sick about that other kitten, the Houdini). To me, he was the one that stayed awake, and aware, and wandered off…to live. (He’ll have the best stories, if he ever comes back). Prodigal as his nature is, he did. So, I said, he must belong to me.

He gets by with a little help from his friends.

I kept hearing this tiny meow, as I lay steaming in the tub, but I refused to think that one had been left behind. I convinced myself that this was the one that had returned. I couldn’t bear thinking he’d been overlooked. How lonely that would feel. I know. 

No, no, he must be the one that left and returned, I mean, how could they have overlooked a kitten, I kept saying over and over to myself. 

The next thing I knew, I’d said it over and over to myself so many times that I was crawling underneath the house, fresh from my bath, at midnight last night, searching him/her out. I couldn’t stand that pitiful mewing. I would never get a night’s rest with that awful, plaintive cry for love and affection. Especially not when I have these arms, so eager to love and affect. It’s odd, but we do that to the sound of a cat’s meow, much more than a dog’s bark, I think: we personify it. It just sounds too “of the depth”, too doleful, too Mahalia Jackson.

I care for animals sometimes more than I do for people. I have yet, however, to trace that root down. I think it must have happened when I decided to love animals more than people.

Sometimes.

I searched forever, and I couldn’t find it, that poor kitten. We decided to leave it food, water, and a lantern for a more fine dining atmosphere. It seems to have done the trick. At least, it’s grown quiet.

And, so, I’ll do my best to do the same as soon as I get these cobwebs and dead crickets out of my hair. I’ll just run another bath, quickly, and say a little prayer.

That’s right, Annelle, I pray.

II: Addendum

I came back from class, today, and as promised, went outside to check on that kitten, I’ve named him Houdini Pip, both for his disappearing act and also because poor Pip, in Great Expectations, just couldn’t stay out of trouble, could he?  Also, I wasn’t against using a file and a pork pie to lure my shackled robber out of the fog of the house foundation. It is plain filthy under there.

I peered under the house, and the lantern was gone. I stood silently in the dead heat of 92 degrees, but I heard no mewing issue forth when I called for him.

The water had been touched, though, and some of the food had been eaten. I was elated. Let him stay under there if he wants, I used to crawl under the house all the time when I was a little kid, much to the chagrin of everyone else. So long as he eats, he’ll be fine. And that’s what it appeared he’d done: eaten, at least a little of the food.

Amanda, ironically, I realized then, had not asked me to meet her anywhere for lunch. That’s when I g0t a little worried.

I ain't no Ingrid Bergman.

What if she’s taken to eating cat food? I fear that would not bode well for the future of groceries in our home.

This is how I stress: What if she’s just moving the food around in that bowl because she knows how neurotic I am about stray animals and someone loving them, and by so moving the food, she’ll think that I’ll assume the kitten’s being taken care of, because that’s exactly what I’d think.

If any of that’s true, then all I can say is this: that’s one hell of a gaslight.

But, I know better. After all, the lantern we used takes batteries.

Related Posts:

• Last night, my ankle had an out-of-body experience.
• Lazarus and his "Transferring to the Banana."
• The Art of the Dirty Word.
• Am I merely a heathen, now? Is that what this heartburn is indicating?
• I was able to order my fish sandwich without incident.