Wednesday, 28 January 2009. 11:15 AM. The phone rang. It was the former Mrs Wolverhampton. She was frantic, in a veritable state of franticity.Let's pause for a moment here. My daughter Rowan (who will turn seven on Valentine's Day) has a beautiful eight-month-old kitten. She loves this animal. The kitten is grey and white with blue eyes. Rowan carries her around the house and snuggles her as if she were an extension of her own body. Shortly after acquiring the beastie, she asked me, "Daddy, what should I name my kitten?"
"Why not call her Pooter Bug?"
"No."
"Or Grey Face?" I suggested for no apparent reason.
Rowan's eyes lit up. "I'll call her Grace! Princess Grace!"
And really, why not? Grey + Face = Grace, right? Sort of. Usually she calls the cat Gracie.
So back to our story: The former Mrs Wolverhampton said (and I'm paraphrasing here, because really, who knows?), "Rowan is in school and I'm babysitting the two-year-old from next door." Her voice was troubled, shaky. "Banjo (not her real name) was playing with the cat and I turned my back for a moment and now Gracie can't walk. Her legs are sticking out and her tail is in a weird position and it looks like her hips are out of joint. I'm freaking out. I think Gracie is broken."
"Bloody hell," I think I said, but really, who knows?
"I don't have the child seat in the car, so I can't leave. Can you hurry over here and take Grace to the cat doctor?"
A loving, doting father doesn't say "no" when his daughter's kitten's ass is turned inside-out, right? I jumped into the car and headed out to Stratford. I had Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here in the CD player and I had to turn it off. If you've ever experienced a migraine, you'll understand that there can be no sound when the pain strikes. That's very much how I felt: I had images of Gracie in pain, going into shock, having seizures and convulsions, perhaps having to be put to sleep. In my mind, there existed the possibility that Rowan would come home from school and her cat would be gone. I felt sick to my stomach. I hurt for both Rowan and Gracie. For the first time in my life I could not listen to The Floyd.
I made the twenty-five-minute drive in fifteen minutes. I knocked on the door, tried the knob, found it unlocked and let myself in. The former Mrs Wolverhampton pointed to the pitiful ball of cat fur on the floor. Something was clearly not right with this animal. We put Gracie in the pet carrier and I dashed out the door. "I'll meet you there as soon as I can," offered the ex.
Another fifteen minutes or so and I arrived at hospital. I rushed in and placed the pet carrier upon the counter. "I have a hurt cat!" exclaimed I in a veritable state of franticity.
The young lady gave me the once-over and said, "You don't have an appointment so you'll have to wait. Fill out these forms and have a seat."
I did as I was instructed. I filled out the forms and had a seat. The seats were hard, wooden church pews. My tired old cracked coccyx was not prepared for the wait that would follow. I tried to make myself and Gracie comfortable. She had grown very quiet. And very still. I put my hand into the carrier and stroked her chin and around her ears.
Forty-five minutes later, a woman finally approached and asked what was wrong. At that very moment, the former Mrs W came through the door. I asked her to explain and she proceeded to relate the problem as she understood it.
The vet lady said that she would take Gracie to the back where she would be checked, and that she would inform us of what they found. We were not invited to attend.
About ten minutes later, the vet lady returned carrying Gracie in the pet carrier. Another woman who introduced herself as the doctor accompanied her.
The vet lady shrugged. "We can't find anything wrong."
Huh? What? Excuse me?
The doctor explained that they had done an anal probe and checked her bones and she seemed fine.
Then the doctor asked, "Has she been spayed?"
"No," replied the former Mrs Wolverhampton.
"Well," said the doctor, "she's in heat. You should have her spayed as soon as possible."
We all looked around at one another and the laughter began to spill. Gracie was not hurt... she had simply been assuming the position. Legs out, tail up, ready and waiting for something she could not begin to understand.
It cost the former Mrs Wolverhampton $30 to glean this information. A cheap laugh.
I listened to Pink Floyd on the drive home. Shine on, you Gracie diamond.
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