“Don’t tell Mom; there’s a cat with one eye missing hanging around the shed.” It was my daughter, Lianna, calling me to give me the heads-up. We both knew my wife was a pushover for little lost cats who always seemed to find their way to our home in the woods. “See if you can shoo it away,” I told her. “Maybe it will leave and go back home.” But, when I got home from work, this little calico with only one eye was still hanging around. He was certainly friendly enough, but the last thing we needed was another cat. As my wife pulled up in the driveway shortly afterwards, Lianna and I were loving up this little lost soul, petting him on the swing that hung beneath our upstairs deck. Fortunately, my wife was in agreement this time; we had enough cats already; there was no room at the inn.
When we tried to wrap up for the evening and send him on his merry way, his demands for our attention grew more frantic. It was already fairly brisk out this late November evening and the temperature was dropping quickly. It had been drizzling, off and on, all day, leaving him pretty damp and muddy too. That’s when I realized he was shivering, nearly convulsing even, from the cold and something inside me told me that he was in distress, that he wouldn’t survive the night if we left him outside.
“Just for the night,” I decided. “We’ll bring him in overnight and then tomorrow morning we will send him on his way.” Once we had him inside, however, where we could see him better, we realized that his situation was in fact dire, that he was actually in really rough shape.
The next morning when we took him to the vet, we found out that his jaw had been shattered and, in fact, he wasn’t actually missing an eye, it was just swollen completely shut. Something, or someone, had badly brutalized him. It was doubtful that he was going to make it. His mouth hung open and he constantly drooled profusely on the right side, so much so that my wife fashioned a bandanna for him to wear to mop up all of the saliva. He laid on his side and didn’t get up for nearly a week. My wife has always excelled at hospice care so she spoon-fed him with a little rubber-coated baby spoon as we tried to keep him comfortable for what were likely to be his last days. At least his final days would be spent feeling loved, warmth and a full belly.
My wife initially named him “Winston” because Winston Churchill famously said, “When you’re going through hell keep going!” and that’s what she kept telling him to do. Finally, Winston started to come around. He only weighed about four and a half pounds and the vet said he might not ever get any bigger. However, Winston proved him wrong, eating his way all the way up to twenty-one pounds! He’s been an integral part of our family now for seven years and he is the sweetest, gentlest guy you could ever meet. And, he’s our constant reminder that, if you ever find yourself going through hell, keep going!
jon m ketcham #jonmketcham
You Don't Need A Bribe To Join My Tribe...
No whiz-bang reports. No "Secret" Strategies. I won't beg and cajole you. Just an invitation...Come, let's walk this journey called "life" together. Once a month or so, you'll get an update with insights and excerpts of our journey. Go ahead, make it official.. Let's walk this journey as one.
