What Happened …

“Been home since yesterday” I wrote in a recent post. Today I’ve been home for five days. Sunday 22nd March my cat attacked me, in the early morning, on my way back from the bathroom when I was barely awake. Out of the blue, but something she had done four or five times before.

I blame myself. After caring for six successive cats previously in my life, as well as a dog, various poultry and a lamb, I believed a rescue cat would present no problems.

The fact that Moggy had been picked up of the streets and had spent 100 days in the shelter should’ve been a warning. I read that history on her hutch at the shelter and didn’t take in what that might mean. The fact that after all the paperwork was done and we said our goodbyes, the shelter’s staff said don’t bring her back … that should’ve been my second warning.

But what should I have done then, leave her sitting on the counter and demand my money back? I didn’t.

The first time she clawed and bit me was a few days in, when I picked her up to give her a cuddle. My whole left hand swelled up and that morning I was at the GP getting antibiotics and my hand dressed. Cured me of ever again trying to pick her up.

She did not allow me to pat or brush her. She scratched the furniture. She ripped up carpet. I trained her out of all those although patting and stroking her was always a dangerous move on my part. Having her sleep beside me sitting on the couch, laying so near she touched me with her back-end was as close as we got. Sometimes lately she allowed me to lay my arm over her back and just recently she allowed me to then scratch her under an ear.

In the day-times it seemed to me we were getting somewhere, me taming her, she training me.

Night times, she ruled the apartment except for my bedroom and the bathroom, both of which I shut her out of at night. I had to be so watchful all day I just wanted to relax at night. I wrote in my journal, then slept two or three times.

The short distance between the bedroom and bathroom was when she’d sometimes claw me, always at night or early in the morning, probably when she thought she should have food and I wanted to go back to bed. When she drew blood, I washed my wounds under running water, dressed them, and called them an unfortunate mistake on her part.

Some nights on my bathroom dash, I was aware and awake enough that I waved a towel at her or a shirt on a coathanger, both of which she respected as too weird for her to deal with. She would run off down the corridor.

Weeks would go by and I would forget to be watchful on those little trips. Lately I thought she had grown out of those measures. That she trusted me enough to know that she’d never go hungry. She’d become quite the heavy weight after all, and got plenty of food, was what I thought.

So Sunday 22nd March early a/m, she jumped me when I turned to go back into my bedroom, clawed me above my ankle and hissed! The hissing part was new and I was terrified! I nipped back into the bedroom, with information flashing through my mind, I’d be alright … I had antiseptic cream in the bedside drawer, cotton wool and sticky tape. The wound looked torn, a flap of skin—awful—I covered with everything I had at hand.

Wrong.

Should’ve called somebody for help then. An ambulance, maybe.

But. It was Sunday a/m and I was in the bedroom, would ambos even come into the flat knowing there was a feral animal in there? The whole thing would’ve escalated beyond what it was worth, in my opinion.

Naturally I did not sleep, feeling baled up, knew I was doing something wrong. Knew something had to change. I’d had Moggy for 20 months by then. I was getting older, more fragile and my skin was already thin. How many more times could I allow her to attack me like that?

I got up at 6.30 a/m, and after I fed the animal with her usual 20 kibbles in the usual way, washed my leg with a Wet One because the skin was torn and I didn’t dare to put it under running water, the pain alone would’ve caused me to pass out. At that time of morning I have very low blood sugar.

Anyway, didn’t hurt once I’d covered it with a large band-aid. Once again hoped for the best. Set to thinking how to manage the situation better.

Wrong.

Didn’t ask anybody for help. Could’ve called K, who would’ve taken me to ED. Thought I could last till Monday and see the GP. Which I did.

GP very unhappy with me. They cleaned wound and dressed it. Drew a circle around the infection, told me to go to ED if the infection went over the line. Put me on antibiotics. Then they put two elastic bandages over the whole lot, these were so tight that I knew if I took them off to see whether the infection expanded, I’d never be able to get them back on.

Monday night, W came to solve the problem of a feral animal which could not be taken back to the shelter. He took her away and I haven’t asked. Mea culpa.

The GP told me to come back on Friday but probably hoped I’d come to my senses and go to ED on Wednesday. I didn’t. I’d had to wait for an eye specialist appointment for four weeks already, I had a very sore right eye, I went to the appointment on Thursday. Went back to the GP on Friday.

The antibiotics hadn’t touched the infection. The whole thing was a pus-filled crater surrounded by a large angry tight red swelling. The GP angry though he did some digging in there and mopping up. With no local anesthetic so of course I flinched. He told me to go home, pack a bag, go to ED. I was by then angry with him because why no local? And why was he so squeamish? How did he even get through medical training?

I went to ED finally. They had a look, didn’t do any digging, put me on intravenous penicillin. Four nights. And sent me home with more antibiotics to take by mouth.

At this moment in time, Monday 6th of April, the wound has partially closed over, still a large band-aid. The antibiotics are now finished and here’s hoping the infection is gone. It’s been fourteen days.