I wasn't going to share my story of getting attacked by my cat because I was concerned that people would focus on the fact that the cat attacked me, not the fact that it was my fault. But then a friend gave me a newspaper clipping of a story almost identical to my own (only mine ends better), and I decided that I'd share after all. Consider it a public service announcement to all you cat people out there.
It all started when our three-year old kitty, Mr. Pankey, suddenly died last autumn. Following his death we went to the shelter and got a new cat whom we named Oliver. Oliver inserted himself into our family and acclimated reasonably well with the other two cat residents. In all, the transition was pretty seamless. But, for whatever reason, a couple of months later Anna found a cat who needed a home and she had a powerful need to meet him. I said no. Truly, we are borderline on the whole crazy cat people thing as it is. We did not need a fourth cat. She was, however, a bit relentless.
I held firm to my conviction that three cats were plenty until Steve said, "Oh, we have three cats, what difference will four make." Turns out a lot. But I'm getting ahead of my story.
We met the homeless boy and really, he didn't have a lot going for him. First, he was old. Second, he was bony. Third, he was plain. And fourth, he just didn't have much in the way of a personality. But, he needed a home and with the cages of the shelter packed with much cuter cats with a lot more to offer, it was highly unlikely anyone would choose him for their pet. A sucker for the underdog...or undercat in this case...I fell prey to the tug of sympathy. He came home with us.
We named him Willie. Well, William Alexander Jenkins the Third, technically. But he goes by Willie which Steve said is apt because in light of our recent series of cat deaths we can say, "Willie live or won't he?" Clever guy that Steve.
Anyway, things got off to a rough start with Willie. And then they declined. Willie is a little grumpy. Okay, Willy is a lot grumpy and he hates Oliver. He doesn't just find Oliver annoying. He hates him.
Fast forward to the fateful day of the attack. It was early Saturday morning and I heard the usual hissing in the hallway. Only this time the hissing turned into horrible screaming. I went into the hallway and shooed both cats downstairs. Oliver ran into the kitchen and Willie, having been provoked over the edge by Oliver, followed and then went about cornering him, slapping, hissing, and screaming. It wasn't one of Willie's finer moments. Nor Oliver's for that matter.
Irritated that all of this was sort of a ridiculous way to wake up on a Saturday, I followed them into the kitchen and impulsively decided to remove one of them from the scene. Willie was closest. Just as I reached to pick him up I thought it was a bad idea.
It was.
I scooped Willie into my right hand and turned to leave the kitchen when he attacked me. At first it didn't seem a big deal but then he just kept attacking. He kept biting and re-biting. His legs were wrapped around my arm and I couldn't get him off me. I screamed. Loudly. Somewhat from pain but mostly from fear that this cat was never going to stop biting me. Steve came running down the stairs, Willie let go and ran off, and I stood in the kitchen with several deep, painful, puncture wounds in my hand.
The pain was intense. I knew cat bites were dangerous because of the liklihood of infection so I immediately washed the wounds. And then I nearly fainted. I also knew I had to get medical help so I went to a nearby Urgent Care. There my hand was soaked in iodine, I was given a tetanus shot, a prescription for antibiotics, and instructions to soak my personal pin cushion in salt water five times a day. I uncharacteristically followed the instructions (out of fear of dire consequences if I didn't) and for a few days watched carefully as my hand got swollen and red. Even with aggressive and prompt attention a cat bite can get seriously infected.
In the end, mine did not. It hurt badly for several days, throbbed at night when I tried to sleep, but eventually the swelling went down, the wounds closed up, and the pain gradually reduced. This is where my story and the newspaper story diverge. The author tells a nearly identical story of intervening in a cat argument, but she didn't seek medical attention until her hand and arm were so badly infected she had to be hospitalized with strong IV antibiotics. Her hospital bill exceeded $14,000. Because she too had picked up an angry, agitated old cat who was new to her home.
So, I know cat haters gonna hate and assume all cats are demon possessed. They aren't. But humans need to be smarter than I was. And smarter than the woman in the newspaper article and the seemingly hundreds of other well-meaning humans who insert themselves into cat disputes.
Don't do it.
When they are upset cats lash out. Sort of like humans. Lacking the ability to hurt with words, they use their teeth.
For those who wonder if we got rid of Willie. No, we didn't. He didn't attack me randomly, and while he is a bit of curmudgeon, he deserves a loving home just like anyone else. Willie and Oliver are still working out their issues, but now if the squabbles intensify, my body parts stay far, far away.
Lesson learned.
I'm innocent, I promise!
No comments:
Post a Comment