The things we do for love

Daphne, the grand dame of my cat family whom I like to describe as a “pastel” calico, will be turning fourteen sometime this month. After much pleading from Jessica on her fifteenth birthday, we agreed to take this soft beautiful kitten into our home, a decision we have never regretted. She was the first cat I have had declawed and for a while felt terrible about it, but it never stopped her from being a hunter, causing my neighbors to call her “The Daphinator.” As she settled into her more mature years with grace and dignity, she left whatever younger cats were around to the adventures. Last week she did the sweetest thing. The new kitty, the one I was not going to keep, sneaked outside when the door was opened and would not come to my calls of “Here, Kitty Kitty.” Daphne quietly went out and led her back in from the winter weather.

This week she was isolating somewhere and I wondered why. I found her in a far corner on a high shelf in my bedroom closet, apparently ill. I stood on a stool to get her, then I offered her some canned milk, but she felt too bad to drink it. Some dark drool was coming from her mouth, her eyes and nose were runny, and she was making some pitiful sneezing, sniffling sounds. Daphne was never sick. I called the vet and took her in. I told him I didn’t know what was wrong. “Did she have an abscessed tooth, was it one of those dreaded cat diseases, or was she was getting old and heaven forbid, d-y-i-n-g?” He did the visual cat scan, checked her mouth, listened to her heart, and diagnosed her with an upper respiratory infection. In other words, Daphne had a cold. He gave her a couple of injections and I gladly paid the exorbitant fee, $93. Now she is back to being her sweet self. Live and learn.