My Worst Fears. . .

It seems as though one of my worst fears has been realized… I have written previously about the presence of rattlesnakes around my house here in the wilds of Northern California in Sonoma County and my fear that my black kitty-amigo, Plunkett -- who suffers from the apparent delusion that his parents were African lions and that he was born out on the “savannah” -- might attempt to make one of said rattlers his prey.

It began yesterday, late in the afternoon:

Plunkett has what amounts to his own “entrance” which is a “cut-out” space in the corner of the bedroom closet where the water and gas pipes enter into the little trailer that my husband and I share. I was in the bathroom and heard him come up through the “hole”. I was expecting to see him come around the corner any second and, when he didn’t appear, I peeked in the closet to find him lying on his side, holding his left arm up in the air. At that point, he began yowling but, when I tried to pick him up to examine him, he ducked under the bed and remained out of my reach until I got a yardstick and prodded him to come out.

At that point, he got away from me again and went back out through his “hole” -- still yowling.

I was, after about 20 minutes able to coax him out from underneath the trailer. I took him inside and sat him down on the couch to examine him. If I wasn’t certain that he was badly hurt by that point, I was when he began peeing on the couch -- something he has absolutely never done, not even as a kitten. . .

I grabbed the phone book in a panic and began calling emergency animal hospitals in the area. The first one I called was nearby in the same town that I live near but, the number had been disconnected. The second one I called was in the next town (about 15 miles away). There I got a recording that said that it closed at 5:00 pm each day and gave another emergency number of a 24-hour vet clinic to call located in the county seat which is some 30 miles away from where I live.

After being informed by the receptionist at that number that theirs was the only 24-hour clinic within 300 square miles, I gathered the only money that I had (about $200), put Plunkett in my Jeep and drove 90 miles an hour down the freeway to get there.

At the clinic, the nurse took Plunkett “in the back room” but not before I kissed him on the cheek and told him that I loved him. . .

The vet was occupied with two different emergencies at that time (one of which, I was told, was an “extremely critical case”) and I waited for about a half-hour before the vet (a young woman) was able to speak with me.

She told me that had felt a “sack of fluid” under his left arm that she felt fairly certain was an abscess. She told me she couldn’t be completely sure unless they shaved Plunkett’s arm, sedated him and punctured the sack with a needle in order to see if the sack consisted of pus. If it did, at that point they would put him totally under anesthesia on a respirator, clean out the wound and follow up with antibiotics.

At that point, she looked up and asked, “How are we fixed for money?” to which I answered, “Not very well. I have about $200 on me and that’s about all the money I have in the world. There is a possibility -- since my husband’s check is on an automatic deposit that comes in the second Wednesday of every month -- that the bank ATM might give me a cash advance of a couple of hundred more but that’s a real ‘maybe’.”

The vet then went back to “work up some costs” and when she came back, she had a “low estimate” of about $300 and a “high estimate” of about $450.
 
They held Plunkett at the hospital while I drove to the nearest branch of our bank -- praying all the way that it would give me the $200 advance. . .

When that $200 came out of the machine, I could’ve kissed it.

I raced back and gave them a $400 deposit. I was told to come back in the morning to fetch Plunkett and assured by the doctor that, if I didn’t hear from her between then and morning, everything was progressing as planned. If the situation was other than what she expected it to be, she would call me.

I drove back the 30 or so miles to the house but found that I had trouble going to sleep. . . I sat around and watched TV until 2:00 am or so when I finally went to bed.

At 6:30 am, the phone rang and I barely got to it to answer it in time. My heart almost stopped when I heard the vet say, “It’s not what I thought it was. Do you have rattlesnakes where you live?”

I managed to choke out, “Yes.”

“Because after we shaved his arm, I found two punctures that look to me like a snake bite and when I biopsied the fluid sack, there was no pus in there. I’m afraid Plunkett’s condition has deteriorated -- slightly, but, still, it has deteriorated since last night and now he cannot stand on that leg at all,” she added.

At that point, I began sobbing uncontrollably. . .

The vet went on to say that there is anti-venom available; however, the cost is exorbitant -- $1,000. She might just as well have said that it was a million dollars because I knew there was no way we could come up with a thousand dollars and I told her so.

She told me that the alternative was to send him home with an I.V. to keep him hydrated, antibiotics and pain medication. I would have to keep him inside, keep a tight watch on him, administer the medications and fluid and just take a “wait and see” attitude over the next week or so. . . I could go and get him after 9:00 am.

Crying, I made a cup of coffee and I continued crying as I left the house and drove down the freeway to the clinic. . .

On the way, I begged God that, if he was going to take Plunkett, could he please not let him suffer too much before he did. I pleaded with him that, if there was a suffering debt that had to be paid that I would gladly take it on my account when it came my time to go if he could just find it in his heart to spare my little kitty.

I was crying so much in the waiting room at the clinic that one of the nurses showed me to an examination room to wait for the “day-shift” vet to come and talk to me.

The nurse was a very kind person. “Would you like me to go get Plunkett and bring him in here so you two can wait together for the vet?” she asked.

Still crying, I managed to nod my head and she fetched Plunkett -- wrapped in a blanket -- and brought him in to me.     

The vet came in and showed me how to give him the I.V. and the pain medication. The antibiotics are in pill form.

As soon as I got him home, Plunkett followed me, limping, into the kitchen and gave me one of his “I’m hungry and you promised me tuna when we got here” meows. He ate two helpings of tuna. I held my breath as he limped over to his “table-top fountain” drinking fountain that I keep in an adjoining room on the floor and spent about 5 minutes drinking water. Both of these things are very good signs, I feel.

I have the air-conditioner on and, at the moment, Plunkett is lying on the floor. With his arm shaved, I can see the two puncture wounds clearly on his arm and the wound is still oozing a mixture of blood and other fluid.

I am hoping against hope that this bite he suffered is not from a rattlesnake but, rather, from the large king snake that both my husband I have seen near the house. I’ve given Plunkett one additional dose of pain medication when he started to get a little “antsy” -- acting like he wanted to go outside -- but feel that I can hold off on the I.V. a little while because of all the water that he drank when he first arrived. As of the moment, though, he cannot walk more than a couple of limping steps before he falls down where is and just lies there. . .

When the vet demonstrated how to insert the needle of the I.V. into him at the hospital while I held him on the examination table, she asked, “How comfortable are you with needles? You know, some people just can’t do this because of how they feel about it.”

I answered, “If it will save my kitty’s life, I’ll get comfortable with needles. I’ll sleep with one if it will save him. . .”