The Perm-a-Whistle Kitty, part I

Earlier, I posted about my little Lollygagger stepping in wet cat barf and shouting “What the Hell!?” The barf came from our perm-a-whistle kitty who was perfectly whole when she came to us.

She was roughly 4 months old when she was ripped from her fancy bird cage, -yes, I said bird cage -and put into my arms, for free. She seemed to be somewhat antisocial at the time. I talked myself into believing she was just nervous and would spring to life when presented with cat toys and Fancy Feast.

Days passed, and our sweet little kitten had still not meowed, nor purred. Though concerned, I couldn’t find anything physically wrong with her. Maybe she needed more time.

One morning, and mean EARLY in the morning, I heard what I thought was the kitten (we shall from this point forward call her by her given name, The Little Princess) playing with our large-marge of a Cat, Murray. Murray is the King of the Castle, the Ruler of the Roost, the Kamehameha of his tiny Island. He is a Princess and is not happy with the new kids name. They weren’t playing. Murray was beating the tar out of the poor baby, who went into a state of shock.

The Little Princess had a severe spike in her body temperature, lost her bowels and bladder, and seemed to have lost the ability to blink. I thought he killed her. She was sure to die in the next few minutes. What was I to do? The only emergency pet clinic was 30 minutes from the bottom of the mountain I live on. Getting to the bottom would take another 30 minutes. I tried to pick her up so I could wrap her in a towel and get her in a cat cage for transport.

She must have had more strength in her than I though she did; My hands, arms, chest and thighs were shredded into a bloody mass of faux hamburger. The pain! I have had cats my entire life and know how to handle them, but she defied all logic. I’m still just as scarred from that night as she is.

I managed to get her downstairs to the kitchen where she could sit on the cool tile of the kitchen floor, and I slept on a nearby couch with one eye open for the remainder of the morning until the alarm clock insisted I get up.

By this time, The Little Princess allowed me to get her gingerly into a cage and we made the trek to the nearest vet. My free kitten cost me $255.00

In my next post, I’ll explain how she became the Perm-a-Whistle Kitty.