Saturday, baby Stella got spayed. She’s approximately 4 months old weighing in at 4.4lbs.
The hour of separation nearly did me in as she clung to me begging the almighty me to not leave her. As I ignored her plea and walked out for her greater good, I knew the next time I saw her she might have changed. Poor girl, sitting in a cat carrier all day with impending doom crying out all around her in the sounds of dog and cat whimpers. Her surgery was scheduled for ten o’clock in the morning but after a series of emergencies the vet didn’t get to her until nearly four o’clock in the afternoon. You may be a pet doctor, but you are not in tune with the trembling spirits around you Mr. Vet man. Stella, frightened and alone, suffering from separation anxiety, could have been in the security of her loving home a mere four blocks away until you were ready to take out her femininity. What a thunderous anger a mother gets with these type of things, growl!
After ten or so check up calls from Stella’s worried human mom, the doctor finally called that Stella could go home. We got there as Stella reached a K-hole, eyes bobbing out and her tiny body shaking with fervor. She buried her head in Melinda’s shirt, and begged for our touch. Seeing her, defenseless and scared, battling through Ketamine hallucinations that seemed to linger like a slight overdose, cut me to my core. She’s having this bad trip because of me, and for days she’ll be in pain–because of me. Motherly blame is crippling.
Doing the right thing isn’t always easy, but at least that adorable little kitten has a family that will hold her through her bad experience, carry her when she can’t lift herself, and stay awake just to watch over her while she sleeps. It could have been worse, she would have been a lonesome street cat fighting for food with no chance of a home.
It’s not too late you know, to save a life and give a little precious soul like Stella a home. Imagine the relief of rescue.