From the Melville Cat:
This is the worst week of my life.
This photo says it all.
Heather had been gone forever, in a place called America. I was starting to think she might never come back. But on Monday evening she returned. I was very happy to see her although I feigned boredom.
On Wednesday afternoon, Heather picked me up to pet me. I squirmed.
“What’s this lump on your chest?” Heather asked. She pressed a spot my chest, and it hurt. “Ow,” I told her.
Then I remembered that day last week, when I fought the mean alley cat who hides in the sewer. I always get in fights when Heather is away. It’s how I deal with my feelings of abandonment. (At least that’s what Heather says.) Anyway, I’d forgotten all about it but the alley cat did bite my chest and it felt sore afterward.
Heather put me into the plastic box and drove me to that horrible place called the vet. The vet lady prodded my chest. She and Heather talked but I didn’t listen. I find it hard to concentrate while standing on that cold metal table. After a while, we went home.
The next morning, before I had the chance to go out for my morning prowl, Heather put me in the box and drove back to the vet. She left me there and I was locked into a cage. This was very bad news indeed. I meowed but no one came to free me.
The next thing I remember, I woke up in the cage and felt horrible. My chest was sore, I couldn’t hear properly, and my ears and whiskers felt funny. I tried to move my head and something banged. I looked from one side to the other but could only see straight ahead. The cage was closing in on me!
I shook my head and something banged, whacked. A lady stood outside the cage and her lips moved. I couldn’t hear what she said. I cried and cried, then fell asleep again.
Back in the plastic box. Someone was carrying me. I howled and thrashed. I heard Heather and tried to turn my head to see her. Bang bang, whack.
We got home and Heather freed me from the box. I wobbled and swayed. Something on my neck, something blocking my ears, couldn’t see right, dizzy…What was it?! Path clear ahead but something banged on the side. Whack! The whack was loud in my ear.
The horror. I can’t explain it.
Heather says I have a cone on my head. I can’t see it myself (obviously) but Heather took pictures.
I feel even sadder than I look.
I’m still handsome though, don’t you think?
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Heather tells me. “I’m so sorry, kitty. It’s protecting you.” Protecting me from what, I’d like to know. I hate this cone. Blast it to hell!
I’ve tried everything in my power to get the cone off. I shake my head. I walk backward in circles. I swipe with my paws. I roll. I jam my head under the kitchen security gate. I pierce Heather with my most mournful glares. My efforts are fruitless. I wander aimlessly, mewing and banging things. I exhaust myself and collapse into sleep.
It’s hard work living as a cone head.
But the blasted cone isn’t the only part of my predicament. It gets worse.
I’ve been imprisoned.
When I got home, after a few useless minutes of trying to remove the blasted cone, I tried to go outside. I think more clearly in the open air. But I found all my exit routes blocked. Windows and doors closed. I’m trapped.
The horror, the horror, the horror.
Sometimes Heather lets me into the garden, but only for a short time. She follows me everywhere. Then she carries me back inside.
Even with the blasted cone, I feel more peaceful outside. But I’m not allowed out for long.
My home has become a prison. Blast it to hell.
I almost escaped a couple of times. This morning I hurled myself onto the security gate, scrambled up, squeezed through the top where the bars are further apart, and landed neatly on the porch. I didn’t get far though — Heather caught me, brought me back in, and closed the big wooden door so I couldn’t climb out again.
I can’t take much more of this. Please pray for my misery to end soon. Thank you.
Note from the editor: Smokey had an abscess on his chest that needed to be removed. He now has an ugly row of stitches and the cone prevents him from licking them. The stitches come out in two weeks, but I’m praying the cone can come off much sooner. I’m also praying Smokey gets over his abandonment issues and stops fighting with other cats.