Hanging on to anything newsworthy that is not depressing, here is my banner: Progress Has Been Made.
I have had cats most of my life: let’s just say from around 1960 until now. Dolly, the first (often my answer to the “secret” question on line) did not live too long. Cars in suburban neighborhoods, you know.
After that, we had mostly Siamese.
Back to now. We thought last night that our beautiful Katy had an infection or perhaps a twisted colon. We wondered if she could eliminate at all. She was low balling all around the house, and vocalizing like a crazy person. And there was a beautiful big black male outside.
Very sensitive now because we have had more cat deaths lately than anyone would want to entertain, it SOOO seemed that I had seen this behavior before, but the memory was caked with rust. Being old, there are all these shadows that cover up former intelligence just like a cat’s third eyelid. Access is softly denied. My next thought was that this memory was about Siamese (Katy is an American Calico). Weren’t Siamese especially vocal during heat? I did remember that. There was something about her howl.
The old story is as follows. Sarah and Polly were our two Siamese. They both were in heat at the same time, and they yelled like banshee women. Our little house had a detached garage, and it was there they slept when in season. Dad had to get on the road very early to get all the way to St. Louis for work. One seasonal morning, he flipped up the garage door and a depleted male cat with eyes detached from his head flew out of the dark space at Dad. The stinker had been in there all night, wafted by the pheromones of sisters. He needed out.
The sisters were very cooperative and held a common nursery. They took turns with the babies. It can take a village, you know.
That was then. I never had another female cat who had not been fixed. It has been so long that I forgot the signs of heat. Aggressive work on the part of the animal care world has had great success, at least among my cronies. It was not until after thinking about going to the 24 hour vet clinic, costing a handful you can be sure, that I slowly came into consciousness about what was happening. Katy, who was spayed in December, was in heat!
Without a doubt. She is eating, drinking, and emptying normally. The black cat is installed permanently behind the house, and I now know how far he has come. My friend on my running route knows to whom he belongs. It seems that just a bit of an ovary, just a tiny piece, left after surgery is a call to all the local wild. The black male lives at least a quarter of a mile away.
And now poor Katy has to have another surgery.