No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

 

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished
by Dave Wright

The colorful calico cat lay sunning itself below our cabin window. Like us, it was gazing at the lake, which was quickly changing from dark ice to open water in the March sun. I paid little attention to the cat, assuming it had stopped by for brief rest while patrolling the neighborhood.

A couple of hours later, the calico was still in the same place but was now in lateral recumbency. Curious as to why it had not moved on, I approached for a casual exam. I offered it a bowl of water, but it only lifted its head, sniffed once—perhaps out of indifference, perhaps due to illness—and returned to lay back in the grass. Upon further examination, it appeared unable to move its rear end. Two superficial lacerations sliced across its back, and when I lifted its rear leg, I was rewarded with an insolent hiss. I had just enough time to notice that it was a tomcat. That could explain the cuts on its back, but it is more common for a prowling tom to get cuts and scratches on his face when he encounters a worthy competitor. Calico males are often sterile, but that doesn’t mean they will give up their neighborhood rights without a fight.

Maybe a hungry bald eagle had tried for a meal and missed. They prefer fish, but I’ve spotted small collars in a nest under an eagle-cam. I suppose that if they have to pick through fur anyway, they don’t care if they dine on a small dog or a cat.

I felt obligated to find the owner of the cat. Maybe it belonged to a nearby neighbor, so we posted a message on the lake association’s Next-Door website.

Within moments, it lit up with concerned non-owners demanding to know if we had taken the cat to a veterinarian. I responded in the passive voice: “The cat has been seen by a veterinarian.” No further comment.

Regardless of the exact diagnosis, the prognosis for a cat with paralysis from a back injury is not good. I was not willing to take the cat into a small animal clinic for an expensive work-up that would have most likely led to the same conclusion, but I felt bad for the poor thing and wanted to do what I could to keep it comfortable.

No one had fessed up to owning the stray, and evening was approaching, so I draped a light blanket over it and bid the cat good night.

A few hours later as we were getting ready to retire for the night, the wind shifted so that it blew directly on my forlorn patient. In good conscience, I couldn’t leave it where it was.

A full moon illuminated the lake as I threw on a bathrobe and a pair of gloves to move it to shelter. The cat hissed at me again as I swaddled it in the blanket, gripped the scruff of its neck to fend off a bite, and carried it to a small shed that doubles as an outhouse when the cabin is winterized and has no plumbing.

The cat spent the night and the next day in the outhouse, still unable or unwilling to eat or drink. We were planning to return home the following day, and the temperature was expected to drop into the low twenties. The humane thing to do would have been to euthanize the little guy, but I had no supplies for that procedure with me. I decided to place it on an old blanket and give it another night to see how it would do on its own.

The next morning, the cat had mercifully passed away on its own. It lay rigid on the floor of the outhouse, having had just enough energy to scoot off its blanket before it expired. As a final thank you for my hospice services, it left a pool of urine on the carpeted floor.

The smell reminded me of searching for an apartment while attending the University of Minnesota. I made the visit with another fellow who was to share the apartment with me. It was a stifling day in mid-summer as the landlady led us up a flight of stairs to the apartment. By the third step I was greeted with an eye-watering stench—a token of appreciation left by the previous tenant’s cat. My friend and I held our breath, peeked in the door of the apartment, and gasped, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

I buried the cat and returned to the outhouse with the water that remained from our weekend outing. I poured a liberal squirt of detergent on the stain and scrubbed. I rinsed, reapplied the detergent, and scrubbed again. By the third rinse, I was out of water and my arms ached.

“That should do it,” I said to myself as we packed up to go home.

I was wrong.

At our next visit, I tore out the old carpet, and on the following one I replaced it.

No good deed goes unpunished.

[If you would like to leave a comment on my blog, click “Publish” before leaving the site. Thanks.]