Special Needs Pets

One sunny morning in August 1991, in Long Beach, California, my friend Laurie found a little, sick, injured stray cat crawling up the sidewalk toward her home. Laurie was getting ready to leave for work at the time, so she took the cat to her neighbors and asked them to take the cat to her vet. She then went back into her house to finish getting ready for work, but when she came out again, she was horrified to find that, instead of taking the cat to the vet, the neighbors had called animal control. The officer had already arrived and was about to take the cat away. Laurie ran over and snatched her out of his arms, and rushed the cat to her vet.

The cat's condition was grim. X-rays showed a BB pellet imbedded in her hip and a back injury of unknown origin which left her partially paralyzed. She had a severe urinary tract infection and she was badly malnourished. She probably would not have survived another day without help, but somehow she had the instinct, or good luck, to drag herself to the home of the only person in that neighborhood who would have been willing to try to save her life.

Later that day, Laurie called me and told me about the cat, and asked me to adopt her. Laurie already had a house full of animals and didn't feel that her home was the best place for this cat. I reluctantly agreed to take her temporarily; I already had two cats and wasn't looking for a third, and I was also afraid that caring for a special-needs cat would be a burden. I told Laurie that I would give the cat a home for one month, but if it didn't work out that Laurie would have to find another home for her.

The cat was at the vet's for nearly two weeks, and somehow she found the strength to pull through. The day Laurie and I went to pick her up, an attendant brought in this scrawny, dirty little thing who was so weak she could barely stand, much less walk. Her legs were shaking as she stood on the exam table, but she didn't seem to notice. What she did notice was a room full of people, all giving her their undivided attention. She was in heaven! She wobbled from person to person, distributing headbutts and purring up a storm. When we left the office, the entire staff gathered to say goodbye to her, and it was clear they had become very attached to her. It was beginning to dawn on me that this was no ordinary cat.

I fell in love with her that first day we spent together, and decided that no way would I ever give her up. I named her Major Barbara Underfoot, after the title character in a favorite play. Major Barbara recovered her strength very quickly. Within just a couple of months she blossomed into a beautiful little brown tabby cat with a sweet face and a will of iron. She ruled the house; she made it clear from day one that she was the alpha cat, and my other two cats, despite being twice her size and despite her handicap, never challenged her authority.

Because of her back injury, Major required special care. The nerve connections between her spine and bladder had been damaged, and she was unable to urinate by herself. There was some hope at first that she might recover from the nerve damage and be able to urinate without assistance, but she never did. So Major and I settled into a daily routine: two or three times a day I would take her into the bathroom, dangle her rear end over the toilet, cradle her abdomen in my hand, find her bladder, and squeeze it until it was empty. This ritual became as much a part of my daily life as brushing my teeth, and both of us came to take our routine completely for granted. We were pretty much inseparable and rarely spent a night apart; if I traveled, she nearly always went with me. On the rare occasions that I had to leave her behind, she went to stay at her vet's so they could take care of her.

In every way that mattered, Major lived a normal, happy life. Her mobility was impaired and her rear legs were much weaker than her front legs. She was able to walk, albeit awkwardly, and she could even run a little - it was actually somewhat like a bunny hop - but she could not climb or jump. But despite her limitations, Major never let her handicap get in her way. As far as she was concerned, she didn't have a handicap. She was completely fearless and had a truly adventurous, fun-loving spirit.

One of Major's nicknames was "Muffin" - she was a social little thing and wanted to be friends with everyone she met. Most of the time she was intensely affectionate and was never happier than when she and I were having quality snuggle time. Considering what little I knew of her history - her injuries, particularly the BB pellet in her hip, could only have been inflicted by humans - her loving, trustful nature was a constant source of amazement to me.

Major had a wicked sense of humor, and another of her nicknames was "Evil Beast". One of her favorite tricks was to hide under my bed, waiting for me to walk past in my bare feet. She would then jump out and give me a sharp nip on the ankle; I would shriek and jump out of my skin; and she would dive back under the bed. I swear that I could almost hear a little "hee-hee-hee" coming from under the bed after one of her ambushes!

Many people to whom I have described Major's disabilities have reacted with distaste. I have been asked why I would be willing to keep a cat like that, and to "put up with" her disability. I can only respond by saying that Major was such an extraordinary being that having her in my life was a joy and an honor. Every single day with her was a gift. Every single day with her was an example to me of how to live with humor, grace, courage, and dignity, in the face of incredible obstacles. She was at peace with herself and with the world, and she gave her love unconditionally to anyone who would accept it. She was a living example of principles that many people, including me, aspire to but never fully attain.

Major was an amazingly tough little cat whose incredible fighting spirit saw through her more than one illness and injury during our years together, but in late 1997 she became gravely ill and was eventually diagnosed with feline infectious peritonitis. She battled the disease valiantly for months, but finally her poor little body gave out, and she died in May 1998. I miss my little friend every day.

I am in awe of the miracles that brought her into my life. It was a miracle that she somehow knew where to turn for help when she was a sick, injured stray. It was a miracle that she survived her injuries. It was a miracle that when I was asked to give her a home and I opened my mouth to say "No", the word "Yes" somehow came out instead. I almost let my fear of being "burdened" with a special-needs animal get in the way of one of the most rewarding relationships I have ever experienced. Major was never, ever a burden to me. I will always be grateful to Laurie for entrusting me with this little cat - I will never receive a greater gift. And I will always be grateful to Major for sharing her life with me.