Day Four

The kitten lived through the night and showed no other signs of illness. But he slept all the way to 5AM. I was worried, and I thought it wise to take him to the vet. I didn't want to return my rent-a-cat in a condition worse than what I got it. I packaged my kitten up into his carrier and took him to Doc Cyrus.

By the time we got to Cyrus' office the kitten had chewed through the side of the carrier and was running freely around the dashboard. "Toonces, get down!"

That cat continued to ignore me while it stared out the windshield. When we pulled into the parking lot, I grabbed the kitten in both hands and took it into the office area.

When I got to the reception desk, I was promptly yelled at for transporting my pet without adequate safety equipment. I returned that the damned kitten had eaten its carrier. I didn't get any sympathy from the woman behind the counter. She told me that she couldn't let me leave with the cat unsecured. I then had to pay for a new carrier. Nathan would definitely be paying for fuel to get down to Boston for my date with Audrey.

As she expertly stuffed my cat into a carrier that would hopefully last longer than 39 minutes, she began asking me questions about me and the cat. When she asked for his name I paused. I didn't want his official vet name to be Butternut. Not when he might be sick. It would be a shame to die a Butternut squash. An alternative presented itself and my mouth supplied the answer before my brain could engage. "The cat's PITA."

"Peter?"

"No, P-I-T-A."

"You named your cat after an acronym for Pain In The..."

"No. I am just offering a description of what he is. We haven't agreed on a name yet."

The receptionist looked up at me and it was quite clear she felt I shouldn't have a cat. "The doctor will be with you in a few moments Mr. Crocker." She turned away and spoke to one of the vet techs as I took a seat in the waiting area. As I heard portions of the whispered conversation the words plant, drunk, and careless could be discerned. Was there any one that didn't know that story?

I only had to sit with my source of embarrassment for a few moments before the doctor called me into the small waiting room. I opened the cat carrier and the orange wonder popped out of the carrier much more easily than he went in. This time the vet caught him before he could leap off the table and try to escape.

"Genetic memory. All cats hate the vet." Cyrus was an older man with black hair and a grizzled look. He handled Butternut gently but firmly, quelling the squirming long enough to examine the cat and ensure it had all of his vital parts, although a few parts the kitten probably considered vital had already been removed. There would be no Children of Butternut.

I handed him the paperwork from the shelter. The vet read the gibberish and then said "He's been neutered, and had all his shots. Seems like he's healthy."

I sighed and ran my hand through his hair. "He vomited last night. Didn't seem to act any differently, but he slept late. But still, I thought it would be safer to have him seen."

"What does he eat?" the doctor asked me.

"Uh, kitten food?"

"What kind of kitten food. Wet food? Dry food? Friskies? Science Diet?"

"He gets served a bowl of dry kitten food, uh," I took a moment to try and see the label on the bag I got from the shelter. "Science Diet, I think. The shelter supplied it."

"He have any problem with the litter box?"

"He hasn't gone out side the litter box, if that's what you mean," I answered.

The doctor shook his head and I was left feeling like he thought I was a complete idiot. He began to speak slowly.

"Has the kitten had any loose stools? Any other vomiting episodes?"

I didn't want to admit I hadn't looked at the cat box. "No, I don't think so."

"When he eats, does he do it really fast?"

"Yeah, he gulps food like he doesn't expect to see it again." It had astounded me how fast this cat could eat. I assumed it was because he had to share with so many others in the shelter. Made me feel a little bad about turning him back in.

"You need to get him a golf ball," Cyrus delivered this line with finality.

"I'm sorry?' I failed to see how a golf ball would help my cat. It's not like he could eat it. The cat would not be able to even open his mouth wide enough to eat a golf ball. I wondered if the vet was a quack.

"You put the golf ball in a small dish and put the food around the golf ball. The kitten has to slow down to eat around the golf ball, so that he doesn't gulp food so fast. He doesn't swallow so much air, and doesn't vomit."

"So he's OK?" I asked.

"He's OK," the vet replied.

The kitten kept trying to dive headlong off the examination table, and the vet hefted up the kitten and whistled. "He's going to be a big boy when he's grown. He'll be a right proper Maine Coon."

There was no way to word the question I wanted to ask without being rude. However the question (and embarrassment) must have been clear on my face. The doctor laughed. "I'm not being racist. Maine's state cat is the Maine Coon Cat. They are big cats that can reach 20 pounds or more, and this boy shows a lot of promise for size. His feet are gigantic. You can tell he's a real Maine coon too... Look, his back end is higher than his front end, and he's got the tufted ears and paws. Nice square head too. Lots of people label longhaired kittens Maine coons. Most of them aren't."

"Why are they called coons?"

"Look at his tail. It's striped like a raccoon. Originally people thought the cats interbred with raccoons because they are big and have ring tails."

I looked, and sure enough the tail was ringed. Butternut squirmed away from both of us and finally dove off the table. He started doing laps and I caught him on the third round. Rather he caught me when he decided to climb up my legs and alight on my shoulder. Doc Cyrus caught the kitten and stuffed him in the box, then bid me a good day.

I was in and out of the vet's office in less than 15 minutes. The orange one's problems had an odd solution, but I was willing to work with it. I made a quick stop in town to grab a pack of golf balls and resolved to try to see if that helped. At dinner that night he certainly was forced to slow down as he rolled the ball around in his dish. We finished our meal together.

After dinner I broke a beer out of the fridge and sat down on the couch after filling the sink for the cat to swim in. I balanced the beer on the arm of the couch while I read. Before too long a moist hairball jumped on the arm, and knocked my beer over. I missed the bottle by inches and it clattered to the floor. Fortunately there wasn't much fluid left. What little there was had formed a puddle. When I got up to get a towel to clean it up, I came back to find Butternut drinking my beer. I could now confidently state that the kitten was a beer swilling, water-loving, fetch playing member of the feline race. I didn't know cats drank beer. At least he had good taste. He wasn't too drunk to chase laser lights that night, and after a while we both eventually collapsed into bed.

Of course, that was when I realized I forgot to feed and water Eleanor's cats. I suppose the fact that I got it done before midnight meant that I technically did feed and water them that day.

I came out of Eleanor's house to the very bright lights of a police cruiser in her drive way. Nathan only said he heard there was a prowler in the area. I didn't think he was talking about Eleanor's cats...

Author's Note: As MarsPilot reminds me to say, please do not give your animals beer under normal circumstances. It's not very healthy for them, and unfortunately if they are given it frequently enough, it can do lasting damage to the animals or may even kill the animal. While the kitten lapping up the beer was based on a true event in my life (I did have a cat that liked beer) we were always trying to keep the beer away from him for that reason. Thanks for the reminder and the review, MarsPilot!