Che (et al), Part 2

by Donna Schoenkopf

When last we met here on this page, Che Guevara the Cat had been spotted by Neighbor Orval meowing behind his barn, Rosie had been recovered and was happily ensconced in the house, eating bonbons, and Emma the (it turns out) Queensland Blue Heeler had joined our family.

My, how the world has turned.

We shall begin with Che.

It was a Wednesday, a cold afternoon, and Che was on my mind. He had been gone for three weeks by then. Orval had told me that he had heard my cat meowing down the hill by his creek. At night.

Che never meows, so I was wondering what that was all about, but it also was giving me hope about recovering his resurrected self. (As you know from last week’s story, “Che” had been buried by son John and me after having been discovered dead on Killer Highway 177, only to be dug up after his identity came into question. We had buried the wrong cat, or the right cat, seeing as how it was dead, but not MY cat.)

Orval had told me all about the markings on the cat he had espied on his property. He has good noticing ability, so I was heartened, HOPEFUL, about being able to scoop Che up and bring him home.

I had been to Orval’s barn the day before and had left some yummy canned vittles for Che in his bowl, on top of Orval’s white Chevy Corsica’s engine. I did this because Orval leaves the hood up and it looked like rain, and Che could easily smell where it was and easily jump up to get some unrained-on sustenance.

I gathered a clean bowl from the back seat and a can of cat food (Friskies Meaty Bits Variety Pack, Chicken and Gravy Dinner, his favorite) and walked through the brown dried leaves of the oaks over to the Corsica. I could see Che’s bowl, still on the engine block, but as I got closer I could tell it hadn’t been touched.

Not a good sign. Not a good sign.

I picked up the bowl and as I did I heard a cat meowing off to my right, in a thicket of oak saplings. I turned and looked toward the meowing and there, THERE! Was Che! Alive! He meowed piteously and I began to call him. I didn’t want to approach him as he had been gone for so long and might be skittish, as animals get when they are fending for themselves in the wild.

But he just sat there meowing. Wouldn’t move. I could tell he knew me and wanted to be with me. I would have gone forward except for the fact that really rusty barbed wire stood between him and me, so I crouched down and called him over and over.

“Che. Come and eat. Are you hungry? Come and eat, Che. Come on, good boy. Good boy.”

I saw him get to his feet, but then saw him sit down again. He looked like he was tangled in fishing line or something. Something was going on with his hind quarters. They were skewed and working in a weird fashion.

But at last he came toward me, dragging his legs and almost squirming along the ground to get to me.

It was horrible.

But after dragging himself through the scraggly, stiff, brown, dead weeds he got to me and the bowl of delicious cat food.

His legs. I could now see it was one leg that was injured. He lay on the ground, devouring food. My heart was breaking. But I had him. After letting him eat most of the food while I stroked him and cooed to him, I couldn’t stand it any longer, and gently lifted him up into my arms. He struggled not at all, the way Rosie had, and completely relaxed as I held him. His leg dangled hideously as I carried him to the car.

Into the car we climbed and down Orval’s long, long driveway I drove, turning onto Sooner Road, returning back to my house. I left Che in the car and ran to the shed to get his carrier thingy.

The dogs, Diego Rivera and Angela Davis, ran up, tails wagging, jumping with joy at my arrival, but I was eyeing them with a cruel look and scolding them about being near me and Che. They were the prime suspects in Che’s injury. I couldn’t warm up to them at that moment, and not only THAT, I couldn’t have them lunging at poor Che as I opened the door to put him in the cat carrier.

But they wouldn’t be dissuaded from their glee and curiosity at what was in the car. So I chased them, swinging the cat carrier at them, and then BAM! I was hurtling through the air and smacking down onto the hard packed clay and gravel.

And it didn’t even hurt. (Fat is good for one thing. It pads you when you fall.)

The dogs, sort of chastened, kept their distance, and I tried putting Che into the carrier. He did NOT want to go in. He hung onto the sides of the door with his claws and complained loudly. Finally I tipped it over so the door was on top and poured him in.

The door was tweaked because of my fall, so I had to brace the whole thing against the back of the car seat. And off we went, to Tecumseh Veterinarian, and to my hero, Dr. Bob.

I walked in, knees covered in dirt, and told the woman at the desk that I had an emergency and no appointment, and who should walk by but Dr. Bob. I told him something was wrong with my cat’s leg and he had been gone for three weeks and was a mess.

Dr. Bob said, “Okay, let’s take a look. Where is he?”

I had forgotten him in the car.

So Dr. Bob went out to get him and we took him to the examination room. Dr. Bob said he didn’t look good. It was serious. That Che’s whole lower half was swollen with infection and that it looked like his left hind leg was broken.

He said he might die. He said he probably would lose his leg if he didn’t die. And that it would be difficult to fix if he did survive those two possibilities.

Then Dr. Bob picked him up and put him on the scales. Che weighed 10.1 pounds after 3 weeks of not eating.

I told him I wanted to try to save his leg.

Dr. Bob said that he liked to tell people what they were looking at money-wise before making a decision and the money would be in the $500 range.

(I had JUST gotten a $1500 loan from my bank to cover some unusual expenses. I had wanted to borrow “only” a thousand but the bank said fifteen hundred was the smallest amount they could loan. So I happened to have an “extra” $500. Dang.)

I replied that $500 would be fine.

Then he told me to leave Che for the night and to call him in the morning after he X-rayed him. He told his assistant to give him a pain pill and an antibiotic, to put him in the infirmary and to feed and water him.

So I said my good-byes to my good little boy and walked back to my car and drove home.

I was filled with mixed emotions. Relief over finding him. Sorrow over his banged up leg. Worry over money.

The next morning I called and went in. Dr. Bob showed me the X-ray. It was ghastly ... looked like Tinkertoys gone wrong. His femur had broken off from his “knee cap” and was pushed down past the knee cap a good inch or two. Aiiiiiiiiii yi yi! That poor little thing.

I was told to take him home, not let him out, give him his antibiotics three times a day, and bring him back next Thursday, 4:00.

He would look at it then and decide whether or not the infection was out of the area. Then he could decide if he would amputate or try to put a pin in. Since his bone was small, the chances wouldn’t be good for pinning.

I asked him if Che could climb trees with three legs. (I worry about his ability to escape the dogs, coyotes, hawks and bobcats.) Dr. Bob said no, he wouldn’t be able to climb trees, but that he had had a three-legged cat for three or four years and he did really well.

Until a hawk got him.

So Che is home. He eats. He sleeps. He walks with his horrible, floppy leg dragging along. He sleeps on my bed. I let him purr and put his nose through the hair on the back of my head. He’s “nursing.” But now that he’s older, he doesn’t suck hickeys onto my scalp any longer. Just purrs and burrows his nose into my hair.

Rosie still loves being home and eats every hour on the hour.

And Emma Goldman, the Queensland Blue Heeler who showed up on my doorstep, ended up at Orval’s. He thought she was a cute little thing, and tickled her tummy, whereupon she immediately ran over to his herd of five or six cows and herded them right through the barbed wire fence, breaking it down and cutting up the faces of the cows.

Orval told me that he warned her with a BB gun, but when that didn’t work, he got his shot gun and “peppered her butt”. He said he was sorry to do it, and I could tell he meant it; after all, he feeds raccoons and possums, but he just couldn’t have a dog running his cattle into fences.

I never told him I kinda adopted her (for one day). Just said she was a “dumped dog.” No, it wasn’t that I wanted to avoid responsibility for her actions. I didn’t tell him she was sort of mine because I didn’t want him to feel bad about filling MY dog’s ass full of lead.

And the world turns.

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