Who’s saving whom?

As soon as I got back from Mexico, I picked up Big Mike from Dr. Sue, where he’d been cooling his paws for a week. I was a little stunned to see him still looking so bad: his leg wound had spread to a shoulder abscess, and his bandages were still seeping blood. He was also withdrawn and lethargic – the result, I suspected, of spending more than two weeks in various cages.

Dr. Sue said she might still have a possible home for Big Mike, “if he heals.” IF? This was the first time I’d heard a bit of worry in her voice. What happens if his wounds don’t close? Will he have to be put down?

Worried he would languish further if I put him back in the dog crate, I decided to let him set up housekeeping in my downstairs half-bath. It was a risk – I was still unclear if he was a feral whose behavior would change for the worst once he started feeling better, and I didn’t relish the idea of caring for a feral in close quarters – one who might continually bolt for the door. I needn’t have worried. For two days I had to feed him inside his carrier as he refused to come out into the tiny room.

I should point out that my own re-entry into life after Rancho La Puerta was a little rough. Okay, a lot rough. For one week while I was there, I got to pretend a lot of things: that I was a person of means (I was teaching there so the trip was free); that I had time in my day to work on myself with exercise, meditation and thoughtfully prepared food; that my professional life (i.e. Litquake) has some semblance of balance. And the minute I got back, reality proved otherwise. An avalanche of bad news emails, emotions running high, far too much to humanly do. My life was a runaway train and all I wanted to do was jump off.

As I spent time with Mike those first days back, I could sense his resistance to the good things I had to offer. Clearly, he doesn’t understand that my snatching him from the parking lot was for his own good; all he knows is that since I did, his life has been a blur of needles and pain and cages. When I took his carrier out of the bathroom, he huddled behind the toilet, bandaged leg sticking out at an awkward angle.

He refused to make eye contact unless I was down at his level; when I stood above him or touched his back he tucked his head in and cowered. (Increasing evidence that he was, perhaps, abused.) He refused treats even when waved under his nose. His wound continued to seep.

After a few days of this I found myself nearly begging him. Come on, Big Mike. Buck up. There’s a lot of love and life ahead of you, but you have to get better. You have to open your heart and go with the flow. 

I caught myself. Are you talking to Mike or are you talking to yourself? 

I lay down with him, and cautiously reached my hand under his chin. He did not move away. As I began to stroke his cheeks and neck, he rolled his huge head over gently until it came to rest heavily on my open palm. And then I heard it at last, radiating from his damaged and scared kitty heart: a first purr. Not wanting to end those gorgeous moments of forgiveness and awakening, my arm went to sleep in that position.

“Okay, Mike,” I sighed, tears welling. “Let’s go on together.”