Hello Kitty


BS degree? Yep, boyish stupidity

I have concluded that I will never be completely useless as I long as I can serve as a bad example.  The following should serve as a cautionary tale of what NOT to do when dealing with wild animals.

We came home from a lovely dinner at the Capital Ale House in downtown Fred’burg (a very nice establishment). I was still feeling the euphoria that goes with not having to clean up dishes or do any cooking. As I went to prepare the coffee pot for tomorrow’s (Monday’s) usual week-long paycheck purgatory, Rachel slipped outside the back door to remind our cat just how lucky he is to live outside our home.

As I poured grounds into the coffee pot, I looked out into the fading light of a beautiful spring day. Within Rachel’s outdoor trampoline enclosure, a crazed black and white cat raced back and forth. Rachel stood right next to the opening.

Ah, there’s our beloved child tormenting our black and white cat.  I watched for a few seconds, and then saw our black and white cat sitting lazily on the railing of the deck, watching the trampoline.  Okay, that’s not ours.  OH CRAP!

I raced outside and pulled her away from the opening.  The stray cat kept racing back and forth like a furry missile.  At this point, had I a bit more common sense, I should have grabbed Rachel, ran inside, and called animal control.

But no, I did not do that.  I hauled my college educated butt into the enclosure with an agitated, semi-crazed feline.  Now the cat, realizing that an idiot approacheth clawed his way up the enclosure netting … and waited.

Now it is difficult to describe what sort of thoughts were going through my mind, so I’ll simply say my dinner of steak and potatoes drove out any rational sense of self-preservation.  So I reached out with my right hand and almost managed to grab the cat by the scruff of its neck.  Unfortunately, my aim was too low, and the cat whipped his head around and buried his long, sharp fangs not just into but through the meat of my thumb.  At that point, neither the cat nor I were very happy campers, and I was certainly having second (and very hostile) thoughts.  While yelling “let go you little mustard” (or something that rhymes with that), I seized the animal by the scruff of his neck with my left hand. That immobilized him, and I pried his jaws open.

Okay, now what?  I had a hissing spitting cat in my left hand, which could very well be rabid, and I’m standing in a fenced in backyard, and with my seven-year-old staring at me.  She wanted to put the cat in a carrier, and I him wanted to be somewhere else.

In retrospect, I probably should have put the little finger muncher into a cat carrier. But at that moment, my mind was focused on escaping from being eaten and scratched by Cujo’s feline cousin.

Anyway, I walked over to the back fence and gave my new furry friend a toss into the bushes outside the yard.  Dripping blood all the way up to the house, I ran inside and put my munched digit under the cold water tap.  Now I had to decide what to do, besides stopping the bleeding.  I did a quick lookup on animal bites and rabies and decided to go to the local emergency room, probably the only smart thing I did that evening.

After wandering back and forth for a few wasted minutes, I managed to find the entrance to the ER, and slipped inside.  Luckily for me, only a few people sat waiting for attention.  I filled out my paperwork while the Cartoon Network blared some adolescent noise at near-deafening levels. I refreshed my gratitude at having dropped my cable coverage last year before hearing my name called.

The nurse arrived, looking tired and tattooed, and asked me what happened.  I went through the abridged version – which I always wish I could record and hit “play” when they ask the same questions over and over again.  Have you ever wondered why medical folks always type on the computer, while they ask you the same thing every time?  Are they playing solitaire while you talk?  Are they listening, hoping you’ll change your story to something more intriguing?  Honestly, doctor, I meant to shove that screwdriver up my rectum.  It just seemed like the thing to do.  Or maybe it is just a delaying tactic designed to keep your mind off the spiraling cost of your visit?  Anyway, I did what I was told, which is sometimes a feat unto itself, and answered a few questions:

When was your last tetanus shot?

No clue.

You’ll need one then.

Was the animal being observed?

No, it got away.

Okay, we’ll probably have to get you a rabies shot.

Lovely.  I’m thinking, okay two shots, and I’m outta here.  Wait, animal control wants to talk to me.  Officer shows up, interviews me.  Luckily I’m not arrested for stupidity.  They need to trap the animal, to observe it, and confirm it does not have rabies.  Okay.  He runs off to chase a stray dog across town.

Nurse lopes in with a hypo.  I’ve got your tetanus shot, where do you want it?  I try not to be a smart-ass and say “in Disneyland.”  Oh hell, use my left arm; it’s not much more than a paper weight anyway.  Nurse smiles and says everyone believes the shot hurts, but that it might just be a psychosomatic reaction. Yeah, yeah, I’m a big boy.  I felt a sharp pinch, followed by a dull throbbing pain.  Holy crap that really does hurt!  Hope the rabies shot is easier than that.

I hear the ER doc two waiting rooms away threatening to have police remove a patient’s father for talking disrespectfully to him.  Oh, that’s great; he’ll be good and pissed off before he gets to me.  The very caffeinated Doc shows up, tells me I need rabies shot, and wants my hand x-rayed to look for fang pieces.  Says cats have really nasty mouths, worse than dogs.  Makes sense, every time I see a cat, it’s always licking – well, you know what.  Doc says I’m going to need to take antibiotics to prevent an infection.  Also, he needs to make sure my finger does not start getting red or weepy; otherwise they might need to “lop it off.”  Seriously, switch this man to decaf.

X-ray man drags me off to his lair, takes a jillion pictures (okay, about six) of me doing about everything but giving him the finger. Though I would gladly do that if it would make things go faster.  Yet, mercifully, it is a short session, though I noticed that unlike previous x-rays, they made no attempt to shield my fun nuggets. Guess once you hit 40, they must figure you pretty much shoot blanks anyway.  Perhaps I should have protested, but then again, if they got zapped and started glowing, it would make going to the bathroom at night a heck of a lot easier. It would be like having my own set of portable night lights.  Anyway, I digress.

Nurse comes in carrying a handful of hypos.  I look around, wait, there’s only me here, maybe she’s taking a break on her way to the bubonic plague victim next door who is trying to excrete his lungs through his throat.

I’ve got your rabies shots.


There are five of them; Where do want them?

I resist the urge to say, “How about in the guy next door?”

I can’t give them to you all in the same spot.

Now isn’t that a comforting thought?  Let’s see, left arm is out now, we’ve got right arm, both thighs and buttocks.  Great, now just pull my hair and tell me you love me and my night will be complete.

So, we begin the pin cushion session.  Shots take a while – the serum has the consistency of “motor oil.”  Her words, not mine.  Oh happy, happy day.

Another nurse comes in, washes the crusty mass of blood off of my hands, and cleans out the puncture wounds and surface scratches left by the cat’s scythe-like claws.  I resist wondering how much more damage I would have suffered if I had just simply wrung the cat’s neck.

Okay, now I’m full of holes, meds and antibodies, and have been irradiated.  Finally, I get the discharge paperwork.  That’s when I find my door prize.  Congratulations, you get to take four more follow-up shots for rabies at the ER over the next four weeks, unless, of course, animal control can catch the cat.  Argh!  Finally, I make my way home three hours at the ER.

So folks, if you ever find a stray animal in your backyard, go indoors and call animal control.  Don’t ever attempt cat wrangling.  You will get more than you bargained for.

The postscript to this story, is that animal control caught the cat, and by the time they had finished observing it, concluded it did not have rabies. By then, of course, I had finished my regime of inoculations. On the plus side, however, if I’m ever bitten by an animal or a politician, I won’t need to worry about rabies.


2 thoughts on “Hello Kitty

  1. Pingback: Fugarella « PoisonedCheetos

  2. Pingback: Fugarella | Greg C. Miller, Author

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