Gordon

Gordon was born just about a year ago, one of three kittens born beside my porch to a neighborhood stray. After getting them neutered and vaccinated (with the help of the good people at The Cat Network) I set about finding them homes. The two girls were adopted by an out of state friend, while Gordon was adopted by a family down the street.

I had my doubts about the neighbors’ ability to take care of him. The boys who asked were genuine in their desire to take care of him, stopping by almost every day to see him while he was still nursing, and playing with him once he got a bit bigger. I told them in no uncertain terms, though, that cats are not outdoor pets, particularly in a neighborhood with packs of feral dogs like mine. They understood and accepted my terms, so I let them take him away.

Unfortunately, kids have better intentions than execution, and it wasn’t long before the boys started to drop by, asking if I could give them some cat food or a bag of litter. They would bring Gordon with them, and while he was always clean and well-behaved, he was starting to show a bit of a wild edge. When I asked them, they admitted that their parents insisted that he stay outside all the time, except for a couple of hours in the evening. This really bothered me, and I couldn’t shake the ominous feelings.

Last December there was a knock on my door. It was the older boy, and he had Gordon under his arm. He explained that he thought Gordon had gotten into a fight because he was growling a lot, and kept one eye closed. Could I look at his eye and see if he was okay? I did, and didn’t see anything immediately wrong, but told them to take him to the vet to be sure. One look at the boy’s face settled that, but I asked for confirmation. No, he couldn’t take him to the vet because he didn’t have any money, and his parents didn’t want to spend money on a cat.

That trip to the vet cost me a couple of hundred dollars, and Gordon spent a week convalescing with me so I could put drops in his eye twice a day while the scratch healed. By the end of that week, though, the wildness was gone, and he was back to climbing into my lap while I worked. He could have stayed, but I already have six cats; a seventh would be purely stupid.

Around midnight one Friday night a couple of months ago I heard a horrible wailing outside my house, growling and screaming. I grabbed an eight-cell Maglite and headed around the corner. As I feared, two of the roaming feral dogs had caught a stray cat and were trying to rip it in two. I yelled at the dogs to no response, so I started to beat them with the flashlight. After one good crack on the skull the bigger dog let go and ran off, with the other following close behind. I scooped up the poor cat and rushed off to the emergency animal hospital, but he died before we got there.

The next day I saw one of Gordon’s owners. I told him about what happened, and did not spare the details. I asked him how he would feel if Gordon just never came home, if a dog got him and ripped him apart. It was harsh, and I felt a little guilty, but the boy’s expression told me that he got the message. He said he would talk to his parents again, and that he would try to keep Gordon inside as much as he could. I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. What else could I do?

Finally, two weeks ago the boy knocked on my door, once again needing my help. Gordon was hurt, but he didn’t know how badly. The boy’s mother had told him she’d seen Gordon covered in blood the day before, and now he was in the neighbor’s yard, and wouldn’t allow anyone near him. I grabbed a cat carrier and headed down the street, afraid of what I would find.

He was hiding under under a pile of lumber, and hissed when I came close. I tried to coerce him out with treats, but it wasn’t going to be that easy; with the boy’s help I started to move the two-by-fours, sweat pouring off us in the late afternoon heat. When we almost had enough of them moved to reach him, he darted out and under the house’s water heater, wedging himself between two cinder blocks and the wall.

Eventually, with patience, tactics, and a can of compressed air, we were able to get him to run out and into the carrier. Other than the hissing and growling he didn’t appear to be in terrible shape. He was able to run reasonably well, his eyes were still bright, and once I had him out of the sun and in my dark office he even let up on the growling. When the vet’s office opened and we got him on the examining table the assistant agreed, saying that it looked like he just had a couple of bites, and that I could pick him up in a few hours.

Unfortunately, when they sedated him and started to treat him they found several deep punctures that had become badly infected. There was an abscess and even the start of gangrene under his fur. The doctor said that this wasn’t a recent injury, but had probably been left like this for a few days, if not a week. They would have to remove the dead tissue, put him on heavy antibiotics, and keep him in their care for some time to make up for it. Not coincidentally, as I was leaving the doctor asked if I’d found a job yet. It was going to one of those kind of bills.

Gordon stayed in the vet’s care for almost ten days before I could take him home. They did a good job; he is healthy, friendly, and active. Unfortunately, the skin is not growing back as quickly as it should, leaving him with several square inches of raw flesh near his tail. Twice a day I have to apply a sterile ointment to the area to assist in the healing. Gordon does not approve of this, but he tolerates it, albeit with the help of a cone to keep him from licking the red, ugly wound.

I did take a few pictures of it, though, and when the boy came by to ask how Gordon was doing with his recovery, I showed them to him. He recoiled.

“I’m not going to get to take him home, am I?”

“No. He’ll probably have to stay with me at least a month, just to have time to heal. After that, I think it would be better if he found a new home, don’t you?”

“But, what if we keep him in the backyard, and don’t let him out? I didn’t want him to go out, but there’s seven of us at home. Every time someone would open the door he’d run outside. And my dad says cats need to be outside.”

Seven people in a two-bedroom house. I understand why Gordon wanted to go out.

“No, I’m sorry. You can visit him here, if you want to, once he’s better. But he can’t go out on the street any more.”

He accepted that. His little brother came by later to ask me again, but by then I was even more resolute. Gordon was staying with me.

Later, I wondered if I had a right to interfere like this.  Once I had given Gordon to them he was their cat, and they weren’t deliberately hurting him; it’s obvious both boys really love this cat. It’s also true, as I’ve heard from a few friends, that nature is “red in tooth and claw.” While that is certainly true in the wild, I don’t believe that nature’s savagery needs to be pointlessly extended to suburbia. I worried, too, that I crossed a line by realistically describing what had happened, and by shocking the older boy with the photo of Gordon’s injury. These aren’t my kids, so what gives me the right to try and teach them that their actions have consequences? Yes, the “tough love” seems to have worked in this instance, but was I wrong to have done it?

Gordon Whitefoot, wearing the cone of shame.

I don’t know. I don’t think so. I hope not. I really, truly hope not.

At least I know I did the right thing for Gordon.

Epilogue: A few minutes ago the older boy knocked on my door and asked, eyes downcast, if he could see Gordon. I told him to wait, and then brought the cat to the door. The boy’s face lit up when he saw Gordon, and turned to horror when Gordon twisted around in my arms to get away from the door, exposing the gruesome wound. I put the cat back in my office and returned to the door.

“Wow, that’s really bad! I didn’t think he was that hurt.”

“Yes, and that’s better than a couple of days ago.”

“I saw him trying to get away. He doesn’t want to go outside any more, does he?”

“Would you, after what happened?”

“Yeah. So he’s going to live here with you now?”

“It looks that way. Are you okay with that? Do you understand why?”

“Yeah. I can still come and see him though, right?”

“Sure you can, once he’s healed.”

“I guess that’s good, then.”

“Yeah, that’s good.”

Share/Bookmark