Reflections on the Tenth Week of Winter – Hobble, Wobble, Flop

Emma

Claaaaaangngng!

My husband’s feet thudded onto the floor, tramped down the hall, and stomped up the steps.

I squinted at the alarm clock. Two something in the morning. Such drama over our cat Emma deciding to snooze on the loft bed. EMMA ON THE SPIRAL STAIRS! Yikes!

Throwing off the covers, I jumped out of bed. Would she wobble and fall through the open back for a two-story plunge to the basement? And how could she get to the stairway let alone climb the steps?

Late yesterday afternoon, Emma had hobbled toward her food bowl―appropriate for a cat with arthritis on a cloudy, twenty-degree (-7ºC) day. Her back legs wobbled, and she flopped to the floor. Not appropriate. She stood. Her front legs wobbled, and she flopped to the floor. While I’d carried her to the food bowl, I fretted over the sudden onset of what―stroke, kidney disease, paralysis?

Dismissing the chilling thoughts and ignoring the pre-dawn floor chilling my feet, I hustled to the stairs.

Half way up, Spence cradled Emma in his arms. “She wants to sleep in the loft. I’ll go too.” He hugged Emma to his chest. “I’ll watch her.”

Hiding a yawn behind my hand, I said, “I’ll call the vet’s in the morning.”

The voice of a vet tech on the end of the phone line Wednesday morning chirped like a chattering chipmunk. “This is Melanie. How may I help you?”

“My cat needs to see a vet today. She’s having trouble standing and walking.” I stared at Emma on the blanket in front of the wood stove―motionless with her legs straight in front of her like her brother’s when he took his last breaths. “She flops over when she stands or takes a step.”

“Oh, the poor kitty,” the voice oozed in mourning dove cooing tones. “How old is she?”

“Sixteen.”

The voice dropped to bullfrog bass. “Ooooooooh.”

That alarmed me as much as when my retinologist peered into my left eye and said Uh-oh.

“I don’t have any openings today,” the tech said in an all-business tone. “You can bring her in as a day patient. Someone will look at her between appointments.”

Emma trapped in a wire cage for eight hours to be poked for five minutes? “No. How about tomorrow?”

The sound of a pen tapping on the counter came through the phone. “I can get her in at ten forty-five tomorrow. That’s Thursday, February twenty-first.”

After accepting the time and giving the tech our account information, I turned my attention to Emma.

Prone on the blanket, she opened her mouth. Merrow. Merrow. Merrow!

I slid my hands under her and lifted her off the blanket. Taking two steps, I held her in front of the food bowl.

She lowered her head and gobbled crunchies―nothing wrong with her appetite. After what seemed like a half hour, she leaned her head toward the water bowl.

Keeping my grip, I swung her a couple inches to the left.

Tongue lapping at highway-cruising speed, she drank. Had an hour passed?

Next I set her down in the litter box.

Her legs collapsed, her body sunk, and her ears pointed backward. Hissssss.

Not what she wanted.

Scooping her up, I brushed litter off her tummy and from between her toes then carried her back to the wood stove blanket.

She licked my hand.

Like caring for a new-born baby, I took turns with Spence. When Emma cried, we carried her to the food bowl, the water bowl, the litter box, or a different napping place. Again and again and again.

Too old for tending babies, we fell into an exhausted sleep that night. Thursday morning we woke to find Emma missing―not by the fire, not by the litter box, not in the bedroom, not in the guest room, not in the kitchen.

“Do you think she―”

Spence finished my question. “―climbed the stairs?”

We hustled up.

On the loft bed with her front legs crossed lay Emma. She blinked at us.

Spence grabbed her, carried her downstairs, and set her by the fire. “No more stairs for you.” He tromped to the basement and returned carrying a cardboard box. Pulling a pocket knife out of his vest hanging by the front door, he sliced the box creating a six by two and a half foot barrier. After writing NO CATS across the top, he drew a whiskered cat face with the circular no symbol. “In case she lost her ability to read along with her ability to walk,” he said.

No Cats Barrier

By ten forty-five Thursday morning, we were past ready for answers from the vet.

Spence set Emma’s carrying case on an exam table.

Facing the back of the carrier, Emma crouched as far away from the carrier door as possible.

After opening the carrier’s door, I grabbed her hips and tugged. Did she dig her claws into the plastic? “I can’t get her out, Spence. Lift the back of the carrier.”

He lifted.

I pulled.

Emma slid out with a merrow. Rolling onto her side, she curled into a ball. Then she hid her nose in the fur of her front legs.

The back door of the exam room swung open, and a petite woman, with a calm face suitable for playing poker, entered with a clipboard. The name tag on her white lab coat read Dr. Vanessa Wolf. Placing the clipboard on a counter top, Dr. Wolf pulled out one of Emma’s paws, flexed it, and tucked it back into the fur ball. The vet petted Emma’s head then flexed the other paws. “She’s not resisting me. The nerve messages aren’t getting to her feet.”

Dr. Wolf placed her hands under the cat’s ribs and lifted Emma onto her feet.

Emma’s paws flopped backwards―not ready to support weight.

Dr. Wolf eased Emma to the table and, as if giving a massage, rubbed both sides of the cat’s spine. Half-inch by half-inch, the vet’s hands worked down Emma’s back three times. “With a cat this age, we may not find out what’s wrong. It looks like a neurological injury. She probably had a jolt.” Taking her hands off the cat, Dr. Wolf scrunched her own shoulders and wiggled side to side. “The bones could have slipped and caused swelling and pinching a nerve.” The vet petted Emma. “There’s no test for that. An x-ray would only show she has arthritis which we already know.”

In a shaking voice, I said. “I put her in our new chair, and she jumped off with a jarring thud.” My eyes darted to Spence then to the floor. My throat contracted making it hard to swallow.

“Something like that might have caused the injury. We can’t be sure.” The vet stroked Emma’s back. “I suggest a high dose of steroids to reduce any swelling and release tension on the nerves. She’ll also need an antibiotic because the steroid lowers her immunity. Bring her back in a week.” Dr. Wolf gave Emma a hug. “We’ll see if that gets her back on her feet.”

Friday morning we woke at four-thirty to find Emma on the guest bed. In the bathroom, a puddle of pee, the size of a large pizza, covered the middle of the tile floor. Dollops of poop dotted the puddle like floating pepperoni.

Spence rested his fists on his skinny hips. “How could she jump up on the bed but couldn’t get her ass in the litter box?”

“She walked, Spence!” I reached under the bathroom sink for the Lysol. “I can clean the floor.”

Our baby watching duties changed. Instead of lugging Emma to food, water, or litter box, we watched for attempts to jump―up or down―from cushy napping spots. In the evening, I opened the pill pocket pouch, unscrewed the lid on the steroid bottle, and shook out a pill.

Ears at attention, Emma rose from the wood stove blanket and hobbled-wobbled walked. Halfway to the kitchen, she flopped onto her butt. Merrow!

Mushing the soft pill pocket into a ball to hide the medicine, I walked to her. “You’re right, Emma. It’s treat time.” I dropped the loaded treat in front of her.

She gobbled it down, sniffed the floor, and looked at me with eyes begging for more.

“Tomorrow morning, Emma.”

Saturday, she moved a front paw, moved a back paw, and moved the other front paw. Her back legs slid outward a few inches. She paused to position her feet under herself then took three more steps, slid, and re-positioned her legs―all the way from the wood stove to the litter box in the bathroom.

Tiptoeing, I followed her and peeked around the bathroom door.

She picked up one shaky leg after another until all four stood inside the box. She crouched. Her butt stuck over the edge. Pee flowed onto the tiles.

“Good girl, Emma.” I reached for the Lysol.

She wobbled out of the box and flopped onto the floor.

“It’s okay to rest. You had a long walk.” Scooping her up I carried her to the great room then returned to clean up the puddle.

By Tuesday, a week after her hobble, wobble, flop saga began, Emma managed to angle pee into the litter box. Her poop? A continuing out-of-the-box phenomenon but getting closer each day.

Thursday, while Spence volunteered to save children from lead poisoning in Cleveland, I drove Emma to the vet’s and muscled her out of the cat carrier.

She slumped by the wall at the edge of the exam table.

When Dr. Wolf came into the room, she set her clipboard on the counter and gave Emma a pet. Then she picked up one of Emma’s paws and bent it backwards.

Emma’s foot kicked away from the vet’s fingers.

Dr. Wolf’s eyes widened, and her round cheeks glowed. After testing the other three paws, the vet eased her hands under the cat’s ribs, lifted the cat to her feet, and slowly let the cat stand on her own.

Emma wobbled and whipped her tail against the vet’s arm.

In a sparkling voice, Dr. Wolf said, “Great! The medicine’s working.”

Emma slouched down.

Dr. Wolf stroked Emma’s back. “Bring her back in two weeks, but call if she regresses. Reduce the steroid to one pill a day for the next ten days. Then reduce it to a half pill a day. Keep in touch.”

“Thank you.” I set the cat carrier on the exam table, opened the carrier door, and turned Emma toward the opening.

She stood. Back on her feet, she wobbled, paw by paw, into the carrier.

Dr. Wolf grinned from pierced to unpierced ear.

The tech’s bullfrog Ooooooooh and Dr. Wolf’s beaming face signified a feline miracle for Emma.

At the Vet's Again? Sheesh!