The Day the Cat Exploded
An adult pet experience
A few years ago I lived with a friend and her two cats. She kindly took me in when I needed a place to stay. I am very grateful for her generosity.
I had never had a cat before. Let alone two. I‘ve had lots of other animals as pets. Dogs, Guinea Pigs, goats, horses, a budgerigar, but never a cat.
I know people love their cats. I’ve seen their love on social media. Lots of pictures of their cats on their Facebook feeds, posting cat memes, sharing cute cat videos. I’ve had pets I love. They’re an important part of life.
These two cats, a tabby called Tom and a slinky black chick-cat called Belle, had been around each other since they were kittens. They were old now. Fourteen, the both of them. Which is not overly old for cats, or so I am told, but they were both a bit arthritic. You could see their eyes were a little milky.
And I am quite sure Belle had dementia.
Why did I think this? Because these two cats, who had been lifelong friends, all of a sudden weren’t. And it was because Belle couldn’t really remember who Tom was.
He’d be sitting on the arm of the couch, his spot because it was covered in tabby coloured fur, and Belle would walk past him and start hissing and spitting and run off somewhere else.
Tom didn’t seem too worried about this. Occasionally he’d seem a bit put out, but he kind of just ignored it. I felt sorry for him.
So my dear friend (let’s call her Sandy) was going overseas for a few weeks. I was on hand to keep things running at home. Feeding the cats and cleaning out their litter trays. That kind of thing.
I wasn’t too excited about the poo bit. I mean, they weren’t my cats. And it’s pretty disgusting cleaning up animal poo even when it’s your own animal. But I was grateful to have a place to live, so I just held my nose.
About two days before Sandy’s departure, poor old Belle had a bit of a turn. She got a bit wonky on her legs and kept sneezing. Sandy was pretty worried. I had actually thought Belle was looking a bit skinnier. Off to the Vet she went with Belle and returned with medicine. To be given twice daily. For 10 days.
Now cleaning the litter tray is pretty disgusting, but giving medicine to the cat too? I had to stick the tablet in Belle’s mouth. It was horrendous. But Sandy was leaving and there was no way I was going to have a cat death on my conscience.
A few days after Sandy’s departure I continued on; fed the cats, gave Belle her medicine, went to work. Until Belle had another turn.
She went all weird and wonky. I was pretty sure she hadn’t really been eating much either. I had seen Tom sneaking bites of her food. She was getting more hissy at Tom and he had taken to sitting in another room, away from her silliness. the sneezing hadn’t stopped.
So off we went again to the vet. And he was pretty unhelpful. Continue the medicine. Keep an eye out. See if she presented with anything else. He wasn’t really excited about my dementia diagnosis.
After about two weeks when the medicine had run out, Belle was looking pretty grim. Skinny and hissy with a weepy eye. She would sneeze and hiss at the same time. It was not nice. I called Sandy’s daughter and she took Belle to the Vet. Again.
I was thinking that this time he might consider a humane approach to what was obviously the end of Belle’s life. I think Sandy’s daughter was hoping for the same thing when she came to pick Belle up. But no. Apparently, the sneezing was nothing to worry about. She was returned to me, with eye cream this time. To be applied once daily.
At least it was only once daily.
It was a Thursday night. It was wintery outside. I rushed in the door, hoping to close it quickly before too much cold blew in. The warm part of the house was out the back, down the corridor with a door to keep the warm and the cats in. I couldn’t wait to sit down and perhaps a glass of stout after a busy day. I opened the door…
What I saw in front of me that wintery night can only be described as an explosion. I am pretty sure that’s not what happened. I mean, animals don’t just explode by themselves. But it looked like it.
The cream-coloured lounge, with cream-coloured reclining chairs, cream-coloured cushions and cream coloured blankets were COVERED IN BLOOD. There was blood EVERYWHERE! Sprayed over every cream-coloured surface!!
I have watched many murder series on TV in my time and I am pretty sure there was more blood here than in the whole 8000 episodes of Midsomer Murders!!
And poor old Belle was lying half under one of the chairs. Dead.
I kind of went a bit hysterical.
I mean, it’s not every day you get home to a blood sprayed loungeroom. I screamed a bit and cried and then after I had recovered had to get to cleaning.
I had to throw some things away. Everything in that space was cream-coloured. Now cream and blood coloured. I saved as much as I could. I scrubbed the floor, the carpet (which was not cream but a lovely Persian rug — not so lovely anymore), the couch, the recliner chairs. I threw away cushions, a blanket, and then buried Belle in the garden.
On reflection, I think she did kind of explode. Her sneezing had gotten out of control and maybe some blood vessels had burst or something. I have no idea. I’m not a Vet.
I then had to break it to Sandy, who was enjoying the culinary delights of the South of France. And her family. I never really did give her the details. No one really wants to know their pet exploded themselves to death in a blood spray that rivals a slasher movie. Just a peaceful nodding off. Much easier to cope with.
I haven’t been a pet sitter since then.
Lisa writes about her strange pet experiences as a kind of therapy. She doesn’t have any pets at the moment. Lately, no one has asked her to mind their pets either.