Page 62 of Guitars and Cages

I carried the cat as quickly and carefully as I could, looking for a phone booth or a pet shop, someplace where I could find directions to the nearest vet. Too bad phone booths were damn near obsolete in this era of cell phones, and too bad I’d sort of misplaced my own cell phone again. The cat was quiet as I walked, and I stroked its fur to try and soothe it, knowing it had to be in pain and hoping I hadn’t found it too late.

It took several blocks, but I finally found a pet store and carried the cat inside, nudging my way to the front of the line at the register, glad that my size made it easy.

“Sir, you need to wait in line like everyone else,” the saleslady tried to tell me.

“No, I don’t. What I need is directions to the nearest vet. This cat needs help.”

That got her attention, especially as I turned the cat so she could see its back paws. It got the people behind me to stop complaining, too.

“Oh, the poor thing; hang on, let me get the manager. She’ll know where to send you.”

She ran to the back, and I couldn’t help but be happy this place actually hired people who cared about animals and not just about cash. A silver-haired lady in blue jeans and flannel was holding a basket full of toys for a little dog. When she saw the cat, she stepped up in front of me and reached out gently, petting the animal in my arms.

“What happened to this poor dear?”

“I wish I knew. I found it in an alley down the street under a dumpster.”

Several people started talking then, about how much of a shame it was that people didn’t take better care of their animals, about how there always seemed to be strays hurt and neglected somewhere, and a couple even complimented me for stopping to help the cat. I shrugged off their praise; what kind of person would walk past a poor hurt creature like this and not help?

“My vet isn’t far from here,” the older woman said. “My name’s Anne. I can take you.”

“Thank you,” I said, relieved as the manager came back with the saleslady. “I’m Asher.”

“Oh, the poor kitty,” the manager said.

“I’m going to take this nice young man to my vet,” the older lady said, handing her basket to the manager. “I’ll be back for these later.”

The manager smiled and took the basket. “I’ll put them in the back for you.”

“Thank you,” she said, before she turned and headed for the door. She was pretty quick for an older lady, and I hurried to follow her. She led me to a pink-and-white Jeep, and I paused, in awe for a moment.

“Well, come on now, let’s get going,” she prodded, cutting through my shock.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said as I carefully climbed in with the cat. The Jeep roared to life, country music on the radio, and for once I didn’t cringe when I heard it. She turned it down anyway, which I’m sure the kitty appreciated, and took off down the street. I held on to the cat, petting it as she wove through traffic and cussed one guy for going too slow. Now this was my kind of granny, and I had to smile when she parked with a bit of a skid and a bounce.

“Damned afternoon traffic slows a body down,” she said as she hopped out. I followed, thinking to myself that if that was slow, I was scared to find out what fast was. She walked me in, this determined spitfire of energy, asking for the vet by name, and before I could take in the room around me, a woman in her mid-forties stood in front of me, peering at the cat in my arms.

“Let’s go to the back and take a look, shall we?” she said, gesturing for me to follow her. The older lady followed, too, and we soon stepped into an exam room with a long silver table. I went to lay the cat down and she tried to cling to me, so I carefully petted her, speaking softly to her, trying to assure her she’d be okay. I kept on petting her and talking to her while she was examined. It took a while for the vet to check her over, and then she told me and Anne that we’d have to wait in the waiting room while she did X-rays and an ultrasound to make sure the cat didn’t have any internal injuries. While we waited, I learned more than I ever imagined possible about the importance of heartworm medication from listening to Anne, the secretary, and a man trying to justify not purchasing it for his pets.

Finally, the vet called us to the back where she had the cat resting on her examination table. “She’ll need surgery on both back legs, to set the fractures in them.”

“Can you do that here?” I asked.

“I can, but it’s a costly operation for a stray,” she pointed out.

“I don’t care. She ain’t a stray anymore. I found her; she’s mine. So you go ahead and fix her and I’ll take care of it.”

She looked me up and down. “Young man, I’m not sure you understand what I’m saying. The surgery to fix her legs will cost at least a thousand dollars, maybe more.”

I wanted to cringe; I already had one hell of a medical bill I was gonna be paying off. On the other hand, what was another grand on top of that?

“Fine,” I told her.

“You have to be able to pay once the surgery is completed.”

“How long does it take?”

“I can operate on her this evening; she’ll need to rest and recover here before you can take her home, so you’d need to be able to pay when you come and get her. The other option is that we can put her down.”

---