He’s a bad boy, for sure.
At 12:45 a.m. Wednesday, Molly slipped out of my bedroom into the bathroom while I was trying to finish up the edits on my book and then I heard a huge commotion.
ARF ARF ARF ARF!
I ran into the bathroom to find Huey going after Molly’s midsection. To her credit, she put up a good fight and the only blood shed was Huey’s. It took a couple of tries, but eventually I was able to grab Huey’s collar and drag him into my office and close the door.
Poor Molly lay there on her back moaning in agony amid her own excrement and urine. I felt so sorry for her.
This was at least the third dog attack in her seven years she has endured.
The first being when I rescued her from outside the local grocery with a puncture wound in her head; she was only three months old at the time. Being the sucker that I am for the downtrodden, forlorn, and cast-out creatures of the world, we had a new family member.
Huey, of course, showed up two years ago and refused to leave. When I told him to go home, he looked at me with those eyes and said: “But I AM home!” So being the sucker that I am for the downtrodden, forlorn, and cast-out creatures of our world, we had a new family member.
After Huey found her in the brush, things changed. Molly became a 100 percent house cat and I kept the two separated.
It didn’t look good, so at 1 a.m. I called my neighbor, Mike, the amateur taxidermist and asked him to please come shoot Molly and put her out of her misery.
“I’m already in bed,” he protested.
“I know. I’m so sorry. I just can’t pull the trigger.”
“Oh, all right. I’ll be right over.”
So he came over with his rifle, or shotgun, heck if I know what was what. I was too damn distraught.
Then I led him into my bathroom to show him my poor little feline. This time, she had gotten back on all fours and was crouching next to the box of magazines. She was clearly traumatized.
Mike and I then checked her out and he said she looked like she would be all right and that if she got worse overnight, he’d come do the deed the next day. I agreed.
Next day, Mike called to check on her. She was doing better so we decided to wait. Of course, she wouldn’t eat or drink at all, and that worried me.
By Thursday, I had gotten her to drink some water, which she has been lapping up ever since and this morning, Friday, she actually emptied her bladder for the first time since the horrifying event.
Still, she wasn’t eating. I decided to get her to Value Vet in Bellevue, and they called with a cancellation for 5:20 p.m. The vet was nice as she could be and checked her out, said she looked fine, but to be sure, we needed to take a couple of X-rays, which showed she has a broken rib and a herniated diaphragm.
The vet referred me to a clinic in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, and said it had affordable prices. When I called the clinic, they quoted me an estimate of $2,000 to get her fixed up good as new. Only thing, I don’t have two-thousand-freakin' dollars to get her fixed up. The vet said sometimes cats will heal themselves with scar tissue in an injury such as this, but she advised surgery was the only way she would be repaired fully.
Ever since this happened, I’ve been treating Huey differently. Now I am viewing him more like the perpetrator he is. I’ve not been petting and loving on him as I did before this happened. I don’t want to reward bad behavior. I know he knows something has changed, but I don’t think he understands why. When all is said and done, he is just an animal with animal instincts.
So here I sit on a Friday night, realizing I have to play God with a cat and a dog, both of whom I dearly love. And it is something I don’t want to do.