Tangling With Toby

So, she's a vet, you're thinking. How come she doesn't write stories about animals? Ah, but she does. Here's one for you.

One Saturday in late summer, I took a break from office hours at the clinic to go up the road to the local food mart for some truck fuel and a deli sandwich. I was pumping diesel into Old Faithful when I heard that fateful sound: “Yow! YOW!” coming at me from across the busy state route. This was no genteel “meow.” It was a yell of desperation.

“Holy crap, “ I thought to my self, “another damn stray cat.” I looked around and sure enough, there he sat, right beside the road, a tiny yellow tabby with white markings and a BIG mouth. Obviously waiting for some civic-minded soul such as myself to rescue him.

“Why do you do this to me?” I shot upward to God as I crossed the asphalt, not really expecting an answer, unless NOT being run over by a semi is an answer. By the time I got across to the far side, my quarry had disappeared into the bushes, but kept “yowing” at me every time I called – clearly wanting help but scared to death. I wasted a good half hour trying to catch him. He would come sooooo close, and then squirt away again.

I finally gave up and headed back to the clinic to resume office hours, planning to return later but fully expecting to find nothing left of him but a banana – colored smear on the road. However, when I returned, he was howling as vigorously as ever from the underbrush. A fruitless hour passed, and I had to be elsewhere, so I left reluctantly but promised him I’d be back. I was troubled but determined.

Next day, Sunday, after a morning horse show I returned to the scene. Same result. At this point I was becoming rather desperate. He was destined to become a yellow-cat pancake if I didn’t succeed, and soon. However, he seemed to know his way through the veritable thicket of scrub trees, weeds and underbrush ( with which by this time I was becoming rather familiar, myself). Finally I realized some change of strategy was in order, and I went home defeated and stewing.

Monday night after office hours, back to the scene: same afforts, same result. By now I was losing sleep and the entire episode was becoming an obsession of epic proportions. A Plan disrupted my fitful sleep around 2 a.m. “Wait a minute, you idiot,” I scolded myself, sitting up in bed and dislodging several small dogs in the process, “you are a VET. You have DRUGS. You can drug him into a stupor!!”. Mulling over the idea to the accompaniment of Pete the lab’s snores, I thought it had a good chance of succeeding.

I sweated each successive hour of the next day until I could leave the clinic late Tuesday afternoon. Armed with some canned cat food, cat sedative and a pillowcase hanging like a ridiculous flag from the waistband of my pants, I sought my quarry. He was there, yowing away at me in answer to my calls of “keeeeety! KEEETTTYY!” I wandered once more into the thicket and the fray.

He was hungry, and wolfed down his allotted portion of drugged cat food with abandon. I waited a few minutes, smacking at some pesky mosquitos who had joined the party. He soon became a little less coordinated, but no slower. I whipped out my cell phone and called the clinic, placing an order for more sedation. An entire bottle, and another can of food. The supplies arrived and I mixed them up into an interesting-looking soup with enough tranquilizer to slow down a whole herd of obese and angry Chihuahuas. No luck. He ate more, but slept not.

Rats. At this point I couldn’t quit, because if he decided to stagger out onto the road, his demise would be entirely my fault. I persevered.

Approximately two hot, humid hours later, when I was about at the end of my rope and he was feeling as mellow as a teenager at a midnight laser Pink Floyd show, I decided on a new tactic: I would hunt the little bastard down like a starving coonhound.

I pushed deeper into the brush, enthusiastically escorted by a growing flock of interested mosquitos. I herded the little mister away from the road. He was obviously a tad less with it than before, and I figured he would eventually make a mistake and I could corner him or run him to ground or something…but the “something” turns out to be scaling a lightening-blasted tree trunk, about 15’ high and riddled with termite damage.

Now picture this: the tree looked like something off a Lord of the Rings movie set. The lightening had split it into three parts – two “horns” of trunk still pointed upright while the majority of the tree – minus its top – had broken off and slid down at a 45 degree angle. My little buddy, or should I say nemesis, was perched at the very top of the trunk, and worried.

The tension rapidly became as thick as the mosquito cloud: I knew it was my last shot and it had to be a good one. I stood precariously with one foot on the rotting stump, some 3’ off the ground, and leaned tentatively along the length of the trunk, hoping it would hold. My quarry was just out of reach. I tried shaking the trunk – a little – and rattling the nearby branches – no luck. He eased close enough to sniff my finger but still wouldn’t let me touch him. He was getting a little bit more comfortable with me – or possibly yet more stoned – but I knew that would go to hell in a handbasket if I had to grab him. However, he was young – how much damage could he do? I’d had worse. I pushed on. I had to risk it, for the sake of my mental health at this point, as well as his life.

I wheedled, pleaded, cajoled, chatted with God, rested, swore, fed the mosquitos and waited. Finally, patience not being my strongest point and definitely worn by then, I broke off a 1/2” thick, 6’ long branch and managed to reach around and rustle it above him. Right behind his butt, in fact. He looked panicky. I rustled harder. Finally I started tapping him with it. He sized up the situation: could he or could he not get over my head? He inched closer and gathered himself….

…What happened after that? I’m not really certain. There was a mad scramble and a drop of several feet. Somewhere in that few seconds I managed to nab him and wrestle him to the ground, he screaming bloody murder the entire time, maybe me, too. I distinctly remember panting to him as he dangled by the scruff of his neck from my hand, “scream all you want, but I’m NOT letting you go!” I whipped the flannel pillowcase out of the waistband of my pants, where it had hung waving merrily all this time, and swaddled him in it. Well, more appropriately, I BAGGED the little devil.

I emerged from the thicket at last, a dirty, bloody mess, pulling twigs out of my hair, wiping the sweat from my eyes, and triumphantly clutching the wriggling, fussing, furious pillowcase. I staggered into the clinic – disheveled but victorious.

As of this writing, my kitten- inflicted scratches and bites have been reduced to mere scars and the little snot is…where is he?...surveying me from the dining room table. He is a handsome 12-pounder named Toby, who has gotten over his shyness so far as to nibble on my knuckles when he wants attention.

You didn’t honestly think I’d give him away after all that work, did you?