The Saga of Smiley

She was found under a truck dock early on a wet Monday morning, amid the puddles and the gravel and litter that lay against the wall. It was 39° F out, and I could see my breath as I walked across the parking lot. The security guard who called me thought the kitten was dead. I thought so too. She lay limp and still, her fur matted with dirt and last night’s rain. I picked her up by the nape of the neck and little legs dangled limply. Then she lifted her head, locked eyes with me, and started protesting at the top of her lungs.

Even then, I didn’t think she had a chance. During the fifteen minute ride to the local emergency vet clinic I looked over to check inside the box on the passenger seat every chance I could. Her chest was heaving, but slowly. About two blocks from the clinic I looked yet again, and she lay motionless in the box. I thought to myself that euthanasia wasn’t going to be necessary. Then she heaved another breath. This kitten wasn’t going to give up without a fight.

The initial exam at the vet was not promising. She was approximately nine weeks old and weighed just over one pound. Her temperature was so low it didn’t register on the thermometer. She’d stopped breathing and then spontaneously started again several times during the exam. She was dehydrated, emaciated, and had no apparent use of her legs. But her cries were lusty enough to be heard in the waiting room while the vet worked on her in the back.

I was asked what I wanted to do. We could try gradually warming her up with intravenous fluids. The vet said that euthanasia was a reasonable option; chances were the kitten wasn’t going to survive regardless of what we tried. I heard her crying in the back, and I gave the go-ahead to give fluids and, if she could be stabilized, to get a radiograph to check for trauma. If at any time it seemed hopeless or if it appeared the kitten was suffering, I told the vet that I authorized euthanasia.

The front desk asked me what her name was, so they could set up her file. That took me aback; I had been bringing an anonymous cat in for euthanasia and now I was naming her? I said the first thing that came into my head: Smiley. They wanted to know what color she was, and I didn’t know what to answer. Covered with dirt and debris, it had been impossible to tell. It wasn’t until after I left the office that I realized I’d given an improbably optimistic name to what looked like an almost hopeless case.

Hours later the veterinary office called with the initial test results. The kitten had black blood in her diarrhea, a sign that she was bleeding in her stomach or small intestine. She had coccidia, round worms, tapeworms, ear mites and fleas. She’d stabilized enough for an x-ray to be taken, which showed she had small stones or flecks of metal throughout her digestive tract. Her temperature was up to 99°F though, and she was starting to use her legs. The staff had cleaned her up as best they could, but her ability to maintain her temperature was still fragile and she couldn’t yet be bathed. I authorized treatments for all her parasites and said I’d stop by on my way home that night for another update.

After I left work I stopped by PetSmart and purchased a plush teddy bear dog toy, thinking that it might give Smiley something to snuggle up to in the cage. I then stopped by the vet clinic, expecting to drop off the teddy and get an update on her. Instead, I was asked if I wanted to visit with her.

She came out wrapped in a baby blanket and I placed her in my lap. Without a second’s pause, she started purring and kneading my legs. The vet tech brought out a plate of warmed canned food mixed with water, and Smiley immediately turned her attention to the serious business of eating. While she ate the tech told me her temperature was up to 103° (normal for a kitten) and that she’d been eating little meals since mid-afternoon. When she finished, I put her teddy in the blanket with her and she curled up next to it. When the tech came back to take her back into the ICU she asked if the kitten was available for adoption.

Three days later Smiley was off fluids. She had more than doubled her weight, and had learned that if she clambered up the front of my shirt she could sit on my shoulder and nestle in against my hair, purring while she watched the world from a safe haven. During the three days she was in the hospital two other inquiries had come in about her availability, but the tech who had first asked about her was the one whom Smiley had bonded to, and was the one with whom she’d going home.

Thanks to the intervention of Cat Tales, Inc., Smiley’s medical bills were covered in full. Smiley had gotten a miraculous second chance at life. And I’d gotten a lesson in optimism and persistence, from a little calico who never gave up.