Fat Cat At Large

THIRTY-FIVE

Chase scooped up her cat. He drooped in her arms. He was alive, though, and warm. She felt his little heart beating through his rib cage and he swiveled his right ear an eighth of an inch.

She inspected him closely. His left ear was torn and his inner eyelids were covering most of both his beautiful amber eyes. He was a poor, sick ghost of himself. She mounted the steps carefully, trying not to jostle her poor kitty. Cradling him in one arm, she retrieved her cell from her nightstand and called Mike.

A sleepy voice answered in a croak. “Chase? Do you know what time it is?”

She glanced at her alarm clock. “Oh. No, I didn’t. It’s past one. Sorry. Mike, Quincy is home.”

“That’s great.” He didn’t sound very happy about it. Was the redhead in his bed?

“He’s not well. His ear has a chunk taken out of it and his third eyelid is showing.”

“Oh, that’s not good.” Now he sounded awake and alert. “I’d better take a look. Can you bring him to the condo?”

“So you’re alone?”

“Of course. It’s the middle of the night.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

She laid the injured animal gently on her bed and threw on the clothes she had just taken off, jeans and a sweater. She pulled on her dirty socks and tied her sneakers, then rummaged around for something to wrap Quincy in.

He hadn’t moved a muscle since she’d put him on the bed. Her heart hammered against her rib cage. She got a clean bath towel and cradled him in it, stepped carefully down the stairs, and put him in the front passenger seat. He didn’t stir.

She could easily have walked to Mike’s condo, but didn’t want to carry Quincy in the cold, exposing him to the elements. The wind whipped her hair as she rounded the car to get into the driver’s seat. A plastic bag flew by her windshield as she turned on the lights and the engine. The trees were swaying in the stiff breeze when she got out at Mike’s and carried Quincy up the sidewalk.

Mike must have been waiting for her at his front door. He ran out and took the cat from her. Chase followed Mike inside where he put Quincy on his kitchen counter and unwrapped him from the bath towel.

Aside from a couple of Hms and other grunts, he said nothing as he poked and prodded, using his veterinary instruments to take Quincy’s temperature and listen to his insides. Chase held her breath while he did his examination.

Finally, he straightened. Giving Quincy a soft pat, he wrapped him up again.

“He’s been in a fight. I guess you could tell that.”

“That’s how his ear got torn?”

“Seems that way. It’s just nicked a little, you know, not torn.”

“Did he lose the fight?”

Mike smiled. “I haven’t seen the other guy, but I’d guess that yes, he lost. His nictitating membrane is up, as you noticed.”

“His what?”

“His third eyelid. It’s a sign of stress, or maybe infection.”

“It looks horrible.”

“It’s not necessarily always a sign of sickness. Cats sometimes show it when they’re relaxed and content. Lots of animals have them, mammals and birds.”

“They do?”

Mike nodded, stroking Quincy absently. “Humans are one of the few mammals who don’t. But its appearance along with the other symptoms is not a good sign. He’s also dehydrated, so I should put him on IVs for at least a few hours. I’ll include some antibiotics.”

Chase cringed. Quincy with tubes in his little legs? Yuck. “Okay. You can do that tonight?”

“I should.” Mike paused to think, a hand on his chin. “But I’ll have to take him in to my clinic. You could take him to the twenty-four-hour hospital, but maybe we can do it this way instead. I have the tubing and meds at the practice, so I’ll take him there to get him started, then we can bring him back here for the rest of the night. He might perk up by morning.”

Chase breathed out a sigh of pent-up worry. Someone was going to take care of him. “He’ll be all right?”

“Oh sure. This is a minor setback, especially if we treat him right away.”

She felt her knees grow weak and her ears start ringing. The room grew dim.

She felt a breeze on her face. Opening her eyes, she found herself lying on Mike’s couch. He was standing over her, fanning her.

“I’m not licensed to treat people, Chase.”

“What happened?”

“You fainted.” He gave her an odd smile. “You also mumbled something about ‘the redhead.’”

“I did?”

Mike nodded.

Chase couldn’t look at him. What had she said? She must have babbled in her coma, or her faint, or whatever. It wasn’t sleep.

“Were you referring to Jasmine?”

Jasmine? “I don’t know if I was or not. Who is she?”

“She’s the widow of my best friend from college. He died two months ago and she’s having a hard time.”

“Is she the dog owner who let her dog eat a chicken?”

“She didn’t let him eat it.”

He sounded testy. She should drop the subject. Then she remembered where she was and what was happening.

“Quincy!” She sat up. “How long was I out? We have to get Quincy to your place.”

“Yes, we do. You were only out for a couple of minutes. Do you want to stay here?”

Mike frowned and cupped his chin in his fist. “On second thought, maybe I should run in and get the equipment, bring it back, and do the operation here.”

“Operation?”

“Sorry, wrong word. Procedure. Get him started on fluids and antibiotics. It’ll be easy since he’s a shorthair.”

“Sounds good.” She sank back into the couch.

Visions of dogs on IVs and redheads with spiky hair danced in her head as she lay with Quincy tucked in beside her, still wrapped in the beach towel.

So Jasmine was the widow of his college friend. It didn’t mean she wasn’t something more.