Even Black Cats Have Bad Luck
May 16, 2012
My vet and I have a long and somewhat cherished history.
Years ago I picked up a black cat at a local diner. We named him Timmy.
While I was at school the next day, my neighbor hit Timmy as he was running across the street. Another neighbor witnessed the hit and promptly took Timmy to Dr. David Powers.
Every morning for weeks on the way to school I dropped Timmy off at David’s office and got a quick lesson about expressing Timmy’s bladder. I picked Timmy up after school and David would give me another expressing-the-bladder tutelage.
I reached a level of frustration I didn’t know existed, but David patiently assured me that I’d get it.
Low and behold, I did. But not until I had bawled and had a couple of crying fits in his office. For years David often boosted my ego by telling me I was the only woman in Ardmore who could express a cat’s bladder.
Soon I could whip Timmy up, set him on the commode and express his bladder right into the toilet. Timmy loved napping in the shrubbery so he was always easy to locate for his morning and evening times of expressing.
One very hot July day, one very hot work-in-the-yard July day, I walked into the garage and noticed the staircase to the attic was down.
Oh boy, wonder if Timmy had gone up there? He had a history of checking everything out and an inviting stairway would grind on that cat’s curiosity until he’d have to make the climb to what he’d consider catnip nirvana.
I wandered out into the yard. There the black cat lay under his favorite shrub. I reached through, pulled him out and carried him into the bathroom. Odd though, I could see a few white hairs here and there that Timmy had never had before.
I quickly surmised that because my husband had left the staircase to the attic down Timmy had crawled up there, gotten so hot some of his hair had turned white.
Boy was I hot. I could hardly wait to give John a piece of my mind. His heartless carelessness had caused such a trauma to Timmy he had gone white. Poor Timmy. I could only imagine the pain he had endured in that 150 degree attic. It’s a wonder he didn’t pass out up there. Then we could have closed the stairway and left him to die. Poor, poor Timmy.
Just as soon as I expressed Timmy’s bladder, John was going to hear just how close we had come to losing Timmy – not that I thought John would be stricken sick over the thought of possibly losing Timmy. But Timmy had already suffered enough in his young life and he didn’t deserve any more hurt.
I positioned Timmy over the commode, located his egg shaped bladder, grabbed and squeezed as if I were milking a cow. I could hear results tinkling into the commode; but as I looked down into the cat’s face and he looked up into mine, I had an euphony: “Holy cat! You’re not Timmy.”
The cat gave me a “You’re a pervert!” kind of look.
To this day I have no idea whose cat he was. We never saw him again. When I dropped him off outside, I saw Timmy snoozing peacefully under another shrub. At least his contender didn’t have to tinkle the rest of the evening.
David often told me what a good natured cat Timmy was. Most cats wouldn’t put up with having some one grabbing his bladder and squeezing. What can I say? Either there were two good natured cats in our yard that day or, “Hey Man, I just have the touch!”