My friend Sandy’s sister Mary had three cats. Her husband Fred and two girls recently moved into a house for rent. While moving one of their couches, they inadvertently squished their male cat, Boots, who was inside of the couch. He had several broken bones and fractures, and they didn’t think he was going to make it.
Mary and Fred brought Boots to the vet, who said that it didn’t look like he would make it, but that she could try to save him for a few thousand dollars. Mary and Fred decided to have Boots put down. Devastated, they went home to tell their two daughters that Boots had passed away.
“Boots passed away,” T, their oldest daughter, told me when I walked in the door a couple of weeks ago. A, her little sister, nodded solemnly.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said to them. Sandy had already told me what had happened, but I knew it was important for the girls to tell me, and for me to listen.
Sandy and I went out that night, and even though I thought of the black and white cat from time to time, I slowly began to forget about the incident.
A few days later, Sandy texted me with a photo. The message read something like, “Boots is alive!”
I called her immediately. “What? How?”
Freddy went to pick up Boots’ cat carrier, urn, and paw print that they were supposed to get from the vet. The receptionist told him that the vet needed to see him. Fred couldn’t figure out why the vet would want to see him.
“I couldn’t do it,” the vet had said, walking into the waiting area with a very much alive Boots in her arms. “I went in to give him the dosage and he was walking around, broken bones and all! I pet him to relax him before I gave it to him, and he started purring.” She had mended Boots as best as she could, and sent him home with Fred with an antibiotic.
A couple of weeks later, Boots and their other cat Marley became proud parents of three kittens.
I didn’t believe in miracles before this. A cat who had seemed on the brink of death is now mostly healed up. It wouldn’t have been possible without the charity of the vet, but I think Boots has a strong little soul, otherwise he wouldn’t have hung on that long.
I look at Popi, and I think that there are many years ahead of him. He was diagnosed with stage four liver, lung, hip, and spine cancer in November 2009. The doctors estimated that it had taken only two months to manifest and spread, which means he got sick in September 2009.
Today is May 17th, 2010. Other than fatigue, changed taste buds, a few other symptoms from the radiation and chemotherapy, and the vicious pain he’s been living with for months now, he’s still here. He’s still cracking jokes, watching his favorite TV shows, and cheering on his UConn Huskies. He’s always been stubborn as hell, and I knew from the beginning he wouldn’t go down without a fight.
It’s been nine months since stage four cancer manifested itself in his body. I see at least another five years ahead of him.
