Cat Tales 41
One icy morning, John, the garbage collector, found a scrawny kitten nea rly froze n to death between a cardboard box and a trashcan. Several times over the last few weeks, John had seen a mother cat and several kitties in the neighborhood. The previous day, though, he saw the mother cat’s body in the street, appare ntly hit by a car. A couple of babies from her litte r hove red around, but zipped out of sight as soon as the truck banged its way toward the alley.
The day John spied the wad of icy fur beside the garbage can, subzero wind blasted snow in his face. John had just ass umed the kitten was dead when it stirred; the tiny mouth opene d and the n one eye. John jerked off his warm, re d plaid scarf, wrapped the cat into it, jumped into his truck, and kicked it into gear.
He looked at his watch. The animal clinic should be ope n by now, and it was only a few blocks away. When the garbage truck rattled to a stop in the nearly vacant parking lot, John still held the kitten, wrapped in the scarf, in his gloved hand. He hopped out of the truck, raced to the door, and tried the door wi th his remaining hand. It was locked. Beating the door with his big fist, John yelled, “I’ve got a frozen animal here!” Finally, he heard footsteps inside. As soon as the door swung open, John plowed through. “I found this kitty in an alley. I think he’s a bout dead,” John said, a lump forming in his throat.
The commotion brought Doc Winthrop to the waiting room. “What do you have the re, John?” he asked. “A kitty. He’s a little feller. I think the cold’s about got him."
"Well, bring him in,” Doc said, reaching for the small plaid bundle in John’s outstre tched hand.
“I have to go finish my route, but I’ll be back to pay for any care you give him,” John said. A good feeling pulsed through him, knowing he’d done what he could and tha t Doc would do his best to help the cat.
That afternoon John re turned to the animal hospital. “The kitten is still with us,” Doc Winthrop said with a grin. “You sure he’s a stray?"
"Yes. His mother was pretty wild, and I’d mentioned her to some of the home owne rs I talked to in the neighborhood. They were mad because she kept having babies. I think they we re considering putti ng them all in a gunnysack and dropping them into the rive r."
"Well, don’t worry about the cost of care,” the vet said. “You did your part in trying to save him. I’m doing my pa rt. Maybe he’ll make it.”
The doc and his veterinary assistants muscled their expertise and energy into healing the tiny kitten, and he was a fighter. He made it through an hour-long surgery to re move more than half his severely frostbitten tail and part of a foot. He struggled to survive.
John checke d on the little creature every day. It didn’t take long before the growing ball of fur had made the animal clinic his kingdom. Half Pint, as the doc and his staff affectionately named him, was content to curl up on his perch near the front door most of the time, ignoring much of the clamor of the office. It took more than the usual dogs bark, potbellied pig’s grunt, or parrot’s squawk to inte rrupt his dreams. Several times a day, though, Half Pint would stretch, make like he was going to sleep again, but then jump to the floor and saunter away toward the kennels. There, he would stroll the aisle betwee n the caged dogs, who barked, bare d their teeth, growled, and groaned their threats. The brave kitty di dn’t give a single one of them a glance. Like a satiated king of beasts taking a leisurely walk in the forest while tropical birds, monkeys, and squirrels screamed warnings, Half Pint, with what was left of his tail pointed high, would trot straight ahead as if the dogs weren’t even there.
Once he had healed, the little cat with the big attitude had a much more important role in the clinic than just lounging and pumpi ng up the canines’ blood pressure. Half Pint became the official resident blood donor for injure d and ill felines who needed a transfusion. His blood gave life to show breeds such as the Persian with the snowy, flowing coat, pansy-like face, and wall full of Grand Champion ribbons at home. His blood pulsed through a rotund Garfield look-alike and through myriad othe r scrawny cats suffering from accidents and disease.
Half Pint even saved a much-loved tabby whose tearful elderly owner had brought he r to the clinic to be put to sleep. The tabby’s foot had been pa rtially amputate d in a fre ak accident with a hamster cage. After seeing Half Pint strut through the animal hospital with his deformities and hearing his story, she decided to try to keep he r cat alive and asked the doc to ope rate. Half Pint not only provided the blood for the surge ry, he also provide d the inspiration to do the surgery.
The kitten who started life as a scruffy half pint became a fifty -gallon asset to the clinic. When the ve terinarian introduced me to hi m, I had never been a cat lover, had neve r had a pet as a child, and had children who we re allergic to animals. Half Pint changed the way I thought about pets, and I’ve never forgotte n him. What’s more, I learned an important life lesson in courage and compassion from that back-alley kitty whose lowly heritage and deformed body di dn’t stop hi m from enj oying life and from becoming a hero.
As the old Christian hymn proclaims, “All creatures great and small . . . the Lord God made the m all.” * Half Pint was one of the great ones.