Thursday, November 01, 2007
Betsy Bites the Hand that Feeds
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.
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.
# posted by January Cat @ 3:34 PM 
