Karnak Street Kats

I had not planned to adopt another cat. I had noticed a black cat hanging around the swimming pool, but this one panicked at the sight of a person. One day as usual he skittered away as I came out to swim, but I noticed two bloody spots, one on each haunch. What could have happened? I suspected a cat fight. I think that was when I decided to get that cat.
I decided to call him Jor, the word for black in a science fiction novel I wrote. Jor was the first truly wild cat I had ever tried to catch. At the time, I did not know what a struggle it would be to catch him. I had one thing going for me. This cat loved being around our other cats, especially Tribble, and routinely slept on our back deck at night. I spent days mulling over how best to catch him.
He was limping badly by this time, and I grew more worried. My first plan was to entice him onto the deck and throw a large blanket over him. In retrospect, this seems like a pretty foolish idea, but at the time...
I waited and watched the deck. One night, Jor appeared on it. The deck was screened on all sides, but not roofed. There was no door either, just a four foot opening to the back steps. We had a second set of back steps because of the swimming pool. These led from the back bedroom down to the pool. After making sure Jor had settled, I went out the bedroom door, down the steps, then I tiptoed, blanket in hand up the other steps. There was Jor. He saw me and cowered.
This is going to be easy I thought. Jor had still not moved. I raised the blanket and threw it. It landed perfectly, covering him completely. But Jor was no longer immobile. He was heading for the steps, blanket and all, like a giant, cloth amoeba.
I tried to grab the blanket. I did, but I was pulling it off the cat. I stopped and tried to change my grip reaching for Jor and the blanket. I'm not really sure what happened. I had a hold of the blanket plus one cat leg, but it was slipping away rapidly. I leaned over groping for another leg. I got it, but despite my hold, Jor, the blanket and I were moving toward the steps. I needed to scoop him up in the blanket. I lunged forward to enclose the mound of cat in my arms and blanket. No cat. No blanket. The cloth amoeba had changed direction and headed under the portable barbecue grill. I dived under the grill after him.
I'm still not sure what happened. I grabbed for the center of the amoeba. Jor twisted away and shot down the steps while I clutched the leg of the grill instead of the leg of a cat. Score one for Jor.
The next night Jor appeared on the front porch. What followed was a repeat of the night before except there was not barbecue grill to get in the way, so all I wound up holding was the blanket.
New tactics were obviously in order. Jor liked food. I kept cat treats for my other cats. I began tossing a few to Jor whenever I saw him over the next week or so. He did like those treats and would not run off as long as I didn't get too close. The night finally came when I was ready to try to trap him.
As in most older houses in Austin, we had a front door that opened inward and a screen door that opened outward. My plan was simple. I'd prop open the screen door with a brick, and stand behind the other open door. I'd then entice Jor into the house with treats. Once he was in I'd close the door. After that, I wasn't sure, but at least he'd be in the house.
There was one problem, our front door was not solid wood but instead panels of glass with wood frames. I would be able to see Jor as he approached, but he could also see me. To try to improve my chances of not being seen, I turned on the porch light and turned off the living room lights. Now I stood in darkness.
Jor limped up as usual. I stepped out and tossed him a treat. He gobbled it up. I tossed another, a little closer to the door. He cautiously came forward, then quickly swallowed the treat. Now I was ready. I tossed a treat a couple of feet from me, then retreated. I dropped another in the doorway and tossed a third about a foot inside. I stepped behind the door and waited. Jor took one step toward the nearest treat. He stopped and looked around. He seemed satisfied with his inspection and advanced on the treat and ate it. He got the second in the doorway. I held my breath. He stuck out his head looking at the third treat inside the house. He turned and looked straight at me or at least at the door. He looked at the treat again. Cautiously, with the hand away from the door, I tossed another treat. This one landed a good five feet into the living room.
Jor turned his head and peered at the farther treat, then back at the closer one. He took a step forward, then stopped. I waited. He raised his head and sniffed. Would the smell of the house scare him? Would he smell the other cats and feel safe? My heart was starting to pound. This cat was slow.
Another cautious step, then two quick ones and he had the closest treat. I didn't have him though. If I tried to close the door now, I was sure he would retreat outside. More waiting. I was beginning to sweat. All this for a stray cat. Jor studied the last treat. He did like food. He moved toward it. Just as he reached it, I slammed the door. Jor was in the house.
I was not prepared for what happened next. Jor bolted for the closed door. When he realized it was closed, he did a pirouette and ran toward the rear of the house. I pursued him grabbing a cat carrier as I did. The door to the kitchen was closed, so Jor had to turn into the hall. With me behind him, his only chance of escape was the open door into the bathroom or so he thought. He ran in with me a few steps behind. I slammed the door behind me as Jor slithered under the bathtub, one of those old iron ones on feet.
I put the carrier down. It was wire with a wooden frame. I'd never get Jor to go in voluntarily. After thinking a moment, I opened the linen closet and took out one of our largest towels. I draped this over the carrier, so it was completely covered. Getting down on my hands and knees, I peered under the tub. There was Jor, huddled to one side. I placed the carrier directly in front of Jor, then climbed into the tub. I leaned over and tapped the side lightly. Jor did just what I wanted. He headed for the only dark place in the bathroom, the towel-covered carrier. I closed the door on him. I had captured my first feral feline.
Now, I learned what a truly wild cat I had captured. Overnight, I put him in a large cage we had purchased to house any cats that needed isolation. The next morning, I forced him into the carrier again and took him to the veterinary clinic. I had never seen a cat so panic stricken. He was in reasonably good health, but whatever injury he had sustained had left two bald spots on each hip. Will didn't know how much damage had been done underneath, but he thought there had been some damage to Jor's muscles. When Jor returned from the clinic, I decided not to release him. This cat I would try to tame.
Jor returned to his cage. He seemed so frightened of the world around him that I put a cardboard box in the bottom of the cage. I sealed its lid and cut a hole in the side. Now Jor had a retreat. Jor decided this was the only place of safety. He did not come out at all during the daytime, but at night he ate his food and used his litter box. This went on for several weeks. Mother and I assumed that eventually he get tired of his dark retreat, but that didn't happen. Jor remained a box cat.
Because we did not seem to be making progress and now a couple of months had passed, I decided to remove the box from Jor's cage. I did. Now, Jor had to face the world. He did not like to. The cage he occupied had two shelves. Jor retreated to the highest and tried to look invisible. Mother and I made a point of talking to him any time we walked by. Nothing seemed to work. Jor seemed frozen to his perch during the day.
I was beginning to believe that this was one cat we could not tame, but I hated to release him. I didn't know how badly damaged his hip muscles were. He still had bare spots where his fur didn't grow.
After some soul searching, I decided to keep trying to tame this cat. I'm not sure how it happened. I often tried to touch him when I was cleaning his cage, feeding him or giving him fresh water. He never hissed or showed any signs of aggression. Because of that behavior, I felt I could try to touch him. One day I managed to rub his head, just for a moment, but for that moment he relaxed, then he jumped away. Every day I repeated the rubbing and found that I could do it for longer and longer periods. Slowly, some of Jor's fear seemed to disappear.
Soon, Jor asked for attention when we came near the cage. As he grew more and more tame, I decided we could try him in the house. I opened the cage door. Jor did not come out. I left the door opened and went into another room. When I returned Jor was still in the cage. He stayed there another day with the door open. Some of the other cats joined him in his cage, but he did not leave it. Finally, on the second evening he came out. For a while, he retreated to the cage if anything scared him, but over time he found other places to hide and abandoned the cage. He still let me pet him, but only if I cornered him first. Some pet, I thought.
Jor did love to have his head rubbed. It was almost an obsession. If you could once touch him, he would stay as long as you rubbed. One evening while I was watching TV, Jor walked into the room. He stopped and stared at me. I reached out my hand, but said nothing. He never reacted well to speech. Jor blinked then walked over cautiously and bumped my hand. I did as requested and scratched his head. That one incident changed Jor completely. Soon, he was climbing in my lap and demanding attention.
He loves to be combed, and I have found a place he loves to be combed where no other cat in the house even wants to be touched, the back of his rear legs. He lays on his back in my lap and purrs while I comb them. If I stop, he cries. Jor has gone from box cat to lap cat.
Jor had become so tame, that I thought he could be trusted to go outside some. Several of our formally wild cats do this with no problem. The first time I let him out, I assumed that all I would have to do was sit down and he would come to be combed and petted. Wrong. Jor would not even approach me. To my shock, he would not let me near him, and he would not come in. He did not come in that night or the next. He got wilder by the day. I tried setting the trap. No luck. The days stretched into a week, then another. One evening, I was on the front porch when he appeared. I retreated to the front door and opened it. I called him. He looked at me and then the door. He pointedly kept his distance as he walked in. I closed the door. He ate first. I did not try to pick him up, instead I went to my chair in the den. Sure enough, Jor came in, climbed in my lap, and bumped my hand for attention.
I petted him, then reached for the comb. I started to comb his rear leg when he twisted away from me. Something was wrong. I hauled him back in my lap and looked. At the base of his tail was a huge sore. He had been in a fight, gotten bit and now had an abcess.
The next day I took Jor into Will. He cleaned the abcess, gave Jor a shot and sent him home with antibiotic pills and a tube of stuff to rub on the sore to keep it from closing, so it could heal from the inside out. I had to rub that stuff on for days, it must have hurt terribly, but Jor never tried to scratch or bite. Needless to say, I have not let Jor out again. Although he did get under the house once, but that is another story.
Besides his sweet disposition, we discovered that Jor had another talent. He makes a fine mother. We had finally trapped Scruffy and her last litter. The kittens were small, but Scruffy weaned them without any interference from us. Matter of fact, she didn't want much to do with them. The result was four kittens that harassed any adult cat in the house for attention, but not for long.
Once the kittens picked on Jor, they had a nanny. Jor would groom them endlessly, let them climb all over him and chew on his tail. I didn't realize how great his devotion was to the kittens until some days later. I walked into the den one evening and saw Jor lying in his favorite chair. With him were the four kittens, nursing. I looked again. There was no doubt, the four kittens were lined up each sucking on something. Jor seemed quite content. The kittens were purring. I thought this might be a one time event, but I was wrong. We decided to keep the kittens and until they were over six months old they went to Jor for comfort. They nursed until they were four months old. I have a picture to prove it.

(Names have been changed to protect the innocent and not-so innocent, me)

Although I only learned of Moriarty's adventures secondhand, I think they are worth telling. Moriarty was a black tom cat that appeared on our doorstep in pretty bad shape. I managed to get him in a carrier and take him to my veterinarian. Once Moriarty arrived at the veterinarian's, he was sedated, examined and neutered. He had several abscesses, so he was put on injectable antibiotics. After the first couple of days, he settled down. Will came in and gave him a shot every day without much problem. Moriarty did not try to escape.
On Sunday, Will came in to give him his shot. Moriarty was peacefully curled up in his cage, a black fur ball. Will opened the cage, the cat seemed unperturbed, so Will did not grab Moriarty immediately. This was what Moriarty had been waiting for. In one fluid motion, he uncoiled, leapt out of the cage and sailed past the startled Will.
Now, normally, Moriarty would soon have been a prisoner again, but not this Sunday. At one end of the room was a custom made tub designed for bathing large dogs. The tub was surrounded by a plywood outer wall. There had been some problems with the drain, and the plumber had removed the drain pipe section. Moriarty found the tub, then the drain hole and retreated into the cavity between the tub and the outer shell. He could not be reached.
Will decided that he would have to get the cat out. He did not want a wild cat prowling through the clinic. The only way to reach Moriarty was to take off the outer plywood shell of the tub. Will set to work. Soon, he had one section removed, but Moriarty remained just out of reach. Will removed another section, and Moriarty once more moved out of reach. Two hours later, the tub was exposed, but not Moriarty. He had squirmed his way into the wall where the water pipes entered the tub. He could be seen, but he was well back in the wall. When Will reached for him he hissed and gave fair warning that the docile cat of the cage had vanished.
After some thought, Will filled a large syringe with a tranquilizer. He then returned to Moriarty. Reaching toward him, he waited until the cat hissed, then squirted the tranquilizer into Moriarty's open mouth. It did not seem to phase the cat. Will repeated the process. Gradually, the tranquilizer took effect, Moriarty stopped hissing, but still could not be reached. Will got some food and left it out. A few minutes later a slightly tipsy, black cat emerged from the wall and staggered to the food. He was immediately scooped up and put in a cage. Moriarty's great escape was over.
When I picked Moriarty up a week later, all that Will said was that he had gotten out once, but no problem. It was two weeks later when I learned from Ann of that Sunday afternoon spent dismantling a tub and squirting tranquilizer into a very unhappy cat.
Moriarty would not see Will for almost two years, but when he came again, Moriarty remained true to form.
After almost a year, Moriarty started coming on more or less regular basis for food and now for petting. It was spring and his visits became more regular, and he more affectionate. I hoped that he would decide to become our yard cat at last. Then Moriarty stopped coming. Maybe someone else had adopted him. I walked around the neighborhood and saw him dozing on a porch about a block away. I talked to him, but while he looked at me, Moriarty did nothing else. I assumed that he had finally found a home.
After several weeks of absence, Moriarty showed up early one Saturday morning. I was glad to see him and opened a can of food just for him. He looked like he had lost weight. Was he being fed regularly? Maybe I had been wrong, and he hadn't been adopted. Moriarty finished eating, and came to me for attention. I reached down and petted his head. He turned to rub against my leg. I noticed a bare spot near his tail. I peered at it. There was a scab, but it didn't look bad. Moriarty turned around, and now I was looking at an open wound. I tried to see better, but Moriarty didn't like that. He danced away.
I didn't know what to do. What I had seen was almost surely an abcess that had opened up and drained. However, I knew that did not mean it would heal, the infection might be too far along. Should I try to get Moriarty into the house? What would I do with him if I did?
He needed antibiotics, and the only way to help him was to get him to the veterinarian. Moriarty had let me pet him. Would he let me pick him up?
I went into the house and got a cat carrier. I brought it out and placed it on the porch bannister. Moriarty looked interested, but not alarmed. I petted him again. Carefully, I reached down and placed one hand under his chest while I petted his neck and shoulders with the other. I lifted Moriarty. Nothing happened. I put him down and stroked him some more.
I opened the door of the carrier. I repeated the petting and stroking. Again, I slipped my hand under his chest. I picked him up. With the hand that I had been petting him I covered his eyes, then I swung Moriarty up and into the carrier.
He went in without a struggle. I quickly latched the carrier door. Just in time, because Moriarty hit the door and hissed. He rattled the door once more then retreated to the rear of the carrier. Moriarty was quiet on the way to the veterinarian's office. I hoped this was a good omen. It was not. Once inside the door of the veterinary clinic, Moriarty began to yowl. This sound was not the plaintive moan of a poor, trapped creature, but the warning cry of a very angry beast.
Will's daughter, Sara, was at the reception desk. "What have you got, Ms. White?"
"Moriarty, he's got an abscess, I think." Sara only worked part time at the clinic, she didn't know that Moriarty was not one of my regulars.
"Do you want to leave him?"
"Yes, I do," I answered. I waited as she pulled his card, then explained what I had seen.
"Okay. Anything else?"
"Just get him checked in before your father finds out I've brought him in."
Sara's eyes widened.
"This is the cat the crawled into the plumbing."
Sara nodded and grinned. "I've heard of him."
She came around the reception desk to get Moriarty.
"Be careful," I said. "He's a wild one."
There was no need for my warning, Moriarty increased the intensity of his yowling and when Sara picked up the carrier, let out a truly nasty hiss.
"I see," she said. "We'll call you when he has been examined."
As soon as she left, so did I. I really didn't want to be around when Will discovered Moriarty.
Two hours later, at home, the phone rang. Sara was on the line. Will had examined Moriarty. He had an abscess and needed a course of antibiotics.
"Do you want to give them to him or have us do it?" Sara's voice had a strange tone as she asked.
I thought that was the funniest question I had heard in a long time. I couldn't stop from laughing. "Me, give antibiotics to Moriarty?" I pictured my hands dripping blood, my blood. "No, I'll let Will do it."
I could hear laughter in the background at the clinic. Someone there remembered Moriarty.
"Okay," Sara said.
"I'll call Monday and check on him."
"That'll be fine, Ms. White. Good-by"
"Good-by."
Monday, I called, Moriarty was doing fine, but needed to stay. Meanwhile, I suspected that Marian had developed an ear infection, so I made an appointment for her for that afternoon.
At three o'clock, I was at the clinic and in one of the examining rooms with Marian. She had an ear infection. Will cleaned out both ears, then put in some ointment and gave me some to take home.
I put Marian back in her carrier. "How's Moriarty doing?" I asked.
Will gave me a funny grin and said, "Fine, I'll bring him out for you to see."
A few minutes later, he returned with Moriarty who was still not a happy cat. Will had him clutched in a tight grip by the scruff of his neck, and I could tell the arch in Moriarty's back that it was a good thing.
As Will put Moriarty on the examining table, he emitted one of those menacing yowls. Will seemed unperturbed.
"Look here," he said, holding out Moriarty's tail with his free hand.
I saw a round hole, obviously in the process of healing.
"I think a couple of more days, and he can go home."
Moriarty let loose with another scream. I couldn't tell whether it was anger or fear.
"Good. I hope he hasn't been too much trouble."
Will got that funny look on his face. "Well, the day you brought him in, I let him out in the examining room. He was a little rambunctious."
"Not too bad, I hope," I answered. No wonder Will kept a death grip on Moriarty.
"No, I closed both examining room doors before I let him out. I better get him back to his cage."
Will left with Moriarty, and I headed for the receptionist. "Will says Moriarty's doing fine."
"Yes. That's some cat, I don't even go back in the treatment room with him there."
Will came back. We chatted a minute, and then I left with Marian.
I was getting into my car when someone shouted. I looked around. It was Ann.
I waved at her. "I thought you were taking the summer off?" I said.
"I am. Starting Friday."
"Are you coming back?" Ann had indicated in an earlier conversation that she might not.
"Yes."
"Good."
We talked about her plans for the summer for a few minutes, then I asked the fateful question. "Have you seen Moriarty?"
Ann began to laugh. "Did Will tell you what happened?"
"He said Moriarty got out. Nothing else."
Ann laughed harder. "When I came in late Saturday morning the clinic really smelled."
I tried to look unconcerned. Had Moriarty sprayed the place? Cat urine had its own special aroma.
Ann continued. "Will let Moriarty out of the carrier in the examining room. That cat went wild, careening round and round. It was like a tornado hit. Broke every bottle on every shelf."
"Will didn't tell me," I said.
"Yeah, I'm not surprised. He just stood in the middle of the room saying, 'Drucilla got him in the carrier.' We couldn't figure out how you did it."
"Moriarty was very sweet when I picked him up."
Ann looked very skeptical.
"He really is gentle at home."
More skepticism. Then she said, "It was really funny when we got Sara to call you about giving the cat antibiotics. That was after he had destroyed the examining room."
I nodded. "I thought she sounded strange."
Ann grinned. "We all knew the answer to that question."
I grinned back and shook my head. What else could I do?
"You take care, and I'll see you at the end of summer."
"You too."

Two days later, I was back to pick up Moriarty. He had had his last antibiotic shot and been pronounced well enough to get his vaccinations. Will gave them to him just before I arrived. Moriarty was not a happy cat.
I didn't see Will, he was with a client. I paid my bill and left. There was no charge for breakage.
When I got home, I put Moriarty in his carrier on the porch. Mother came out to talk to him, but Moriarty was not mollified.
"Get him some food. He needs to eat before he leaves," Mother said.
"He's not going to eat. He's going to take off when I open that carrier door."
Mother could be stubborn. "Get him some food."
I nodded and soon had a can of cat food dished up. I brought it out and placed it by the carrier. Moriarty did look at it.
"He's not going to eat." I repeated.
Mother was not one to give up. "Well, he'll know it's there. Let me go in before you let him out."
After she got in the house, I opened the carrier. Moriarty scooted out just as I predicted. He glanced at the food again, then headed down the front steps. He didn't run, but he moved purposefully. I watched as he headed across the neighbor's yard without a backward glance. I figured we wouldn't see Moriarty for a long time.
I was wrong. That evening Moriarty appeared on the front steps. I went out. He came to be petted. I rubbed his head and stroked him. He purred. All was forgiven. I went in and got a can of his favorite cat food. I gave it to him. He ate it all. Usually, he left after eating, but not this evening. He returned to me for more attention. I gladly stroked and rubbed him. Finally, satisfied, he laid down on the front steps.
Moriarty now comes every evening and morning. If anything, he's more lovable than before, and he let's me pick him up to pet him. I told Will he must have given Moriarty sweetness shots.
Will just shook his head.
Another year passed with Moriarty becoming tamer. I was thinking about making him a house cat. He was getting older. As spring gave way to summer, Moriarty lost weight. At first, I thought it was the change in seasons, but he seemed to be growing less active. One day I noticed he had not moved from his spot in the yard all morning. I went over and petted him. He barely responded. I knew he was in trouble. I went in the house and got a carrier. I set it on the porch and opened it. Moriarty paid no attention. That was not a good sign. I went over, scooped him up, and put him in the carrier. He glared at me briefly, then sank back into his lethargy.
By the time I got him to Will, I knew that Moriarty was gravely ill. He just did not respond like the old Moriarty. I told the receptionist the problem, and left him to be checked. The call a few hours later was a shock, but not a surprise. Moriarty had feline infectious peritonitis. There was no cure, and it was contagious. I told Will to put Moriatry down, then I cried.

Labels: cats

Betsy was a small, tortoiseshell, female cat that joined a household of more dogs than cats. Betsy liked the dogs better than the cats. She enjoyed their company and had no fear of them.

One Christmas we noticed that the glass ball ornaments if the Christmas tree were being destroyed one by one. We found them on the floor all over the den smashed to bits. We blamed a cat since the ornaments came from the middle of the tree, but didn't know which cat was the culprit. I found out one day when I returned from shopping to hear the crunch of an ornament breaking.

I tiptoed to the den door and peeked in. Betsy was sitting on the back of an overstuffed chair pulling an ornament off. She pulled the ornament onto the back of the chair, then looked at the dogs who were all grouped in front of the chair. Betsy looked at them, then gave the ornament a bat that sent it careening across the room. The glass ball did not break when it hit the floor but rolled along the rug toward the wall. The ornament never made it to the wall. The dogs were in hot pursuit. The first dog to reach the ball pounced with both feet and the ornament collapsed into a pile of glittering shards.

Betsy waited until the dogs had killed the ornament and returned to the chair before she selected another glittering ball. She followed exactly the same procedure, and the dogs happily destroyed another ornament. I decided that was enough. I shooed all of them out of the den and closed the doors. The mystery of the ornaments had been solved.

Toby, a huge, brown and black, classic tabby, loved to drink water from the tap in the bathtub. Mother spoiled him by turning on the water whenever he jumped in the tub. Soon, when Toby saw Mother in the bathroom, he jumped in the tub and waited for her to turn the faucet on. He tried to train me, but I was less obliging than my mother.

We lived in a house that is now pushing 100, but was about 75 years old when Toby lived with us. The water line from the meter to the house needed to be replaced because our water pressure had dropped to an unacceptable level because of deposits in the pipe. Since removing the line meant that we would be without water for several hours, we filled the bathtub with water. The tub was an old claw-footed one that could hold water to a depth of a foot and a half with no problem.

Mother was brushing her teeth in the bathroom when Toby appeared in the doorway. I now quote my mother: "I told him there was water in the tub, but he just didn't listen." I can see Mother telling Toby, who, of course, launched himself into the tub. Again, I quote my mother, "I don't think he ever touched bottom, he came out so fast." Toby had touched the water as he left a wet trail out of the bathroom and into the den where he began the task of licking himself dry. Mom followed with a towel and assisted the drying process.

It was weeks before Toby would jump into the tub without looking first.

Betsy was a small, tortoiseshell female that loved to ride in our car. She was also very calm and tolerant of the other cats and even the dogs. I never had any problems handling her or caring for her. All this changed when a white cat named Tribble came to live with us. (A friend died and we inherited Tribble.)

Betsy hated Tribble, a neutered and declawed male. Just how much she hated him, I found out one day. We kept the two in separate areas of the house, but Betsy always lurked by the door seeking entrance into Tribble's territory. One day she succeeded in gaining entrance to Tribbles' lair.

Betsy was about half Tribbles' size, but she had murder in her heart. I heard the sounds of a serious cat fight in the front bedroom. I found Betsy trying to kill Tribble. She had him down and was attacking furiously. I grabbed Betsy with my right hand by the scruff of her neck, expecting to be able to control her. I was wrong.

Betsy was in a killing rage. If she could not kill Tribble, she would settle for my hand. She twisted in my grasp and bit my hand repeatedly. The pain was excruciating. Betsy's teeth sank to the bone. I dropped her. My hand dripped blood in big plops on the wood floor. I studied the holes in my flesh and knew I needed to see a doctor.

Betsy simply attacked Tribble again. Now, I made a mistake. Instead of grabbing Betsy with my already injured hand, I reached for her with my undamaged hand. I believed I was better prepared and could control her this time. Wishful thinking! I had no better luck. Once more, Betsy attacked my hand. This time I was prepared for the pain. I held on as she chewed on me, literally gritting my teeth against the pain. I carried her to the bathroom leaving a trail of blood droplets. I flung Betsy on the bathroom floor and slammed the door.

My mother had arrived by this time and was comforting Tribble who appeared to be in shock, unmoving, but panting. I retrieved a cat carrier and placed Tribble in it. By now, both hands were throbbing and swelling. I had stopped bleeding. My mother carried Tribble to the car and joined me for the drive to the vet. We left Tribble at the vet's and headed for the emergency room because I was rapidly losing the use of my left hand.

At the emergency room, I explained what had happened and assured them the cat was not rabid, she was my pet. The doctor insisted on x-rays for both hands because of the swelling and my inability to move all my fingers. Nothing was broken. I received a prescription for antibiotics and advice to follow up with my doctor. I had two weeks of purple, then yellow, painful hands, but I did heal without incident (cat bites can be very serious). The real problem was telling people that my own cat had done this and realizing if I had only used one hand, only one would have been damaged.

Betsy was calm when we returned home. She was returned to her side of the house, and we scrupulously made sure she remained there in the years that followed. Tribble received minor injuries, but no deep bites. Betsy never tried to bite me again, but she never had a temper tantrum again either.