Special Needs

The time has come to take my cat to the vet. She's sick. It has been probably seven years since she has been in. I just got off the phone and found the conversation with the woman who answered very awkward indeed.

Woman: Hello, Animal Hospital.

Nancy: Um. Yes. My cat has some problems and needs to be seen.

Woman: What kind of problems?

Nancy: Well, she doesn't seem to be feeling well. You see, she is normally half wild, and...

Woman: Oh, she's an outside cat?

Nancy: No. She lives inside. Anyway--

Woman: Oh?

Nancy: Yes. She is normally very grouchy and undeniably unpleasant but seems extra grouchy now. She is growling much more than usual.

Woman: Oh my.

This is precisely why I hate taking my half-feral cat to the vet. Four weeks ago I had the phone book open to the local carpet cleaning businesses but am thankful I put off calling them, as she has developed a rampant case of cat dandruff and diarrhea. She tries to lie on the carpet and look relaxed, but every muscle in her body is twitching, and her eyes are wide and demonic. She has been like this for years, but lately she has become much worse. When I have company, my adult guests steer clear of her, giggling nervously and looking to me for reassurance. My friend Kathy once admitted she felt sheepish she was frightened of something that weighs less than a bag of flour. Frankly, I don't blame anyone for being freaked out when they come over.

How does one explain a cat like Gracie?

In 1996, I purchased my very first home. It was a massive accomplishment for me after I procured my first "real" job. For the first time, I had 1000 feet to myself. I threw a modest housewarming party for myself to celebrate, and my guests sat on the carpet scattered about the house drinking daiquiris, as furniture was sparse at that point in time. My friend Shaena came to the front door with a tiny black and white kitten under her jacket. This cat was given to me as a very adorable housewarming present, although she told me that if I was not interested in keeping said fluffball, there was someone else who would give her a good home. No pressure.

The first night, our lives were forever entwined. This animal slept nestled in the space between my neck and clavicle, her strong little motor purring under a bird-like rib cage. There was no chance I was going to give up my new furry roommate. It was nice having another living thing in the house with me. As she grew, her antics included sprinting into the living room, leaping up to grab onto the rim of the lamp shade, and orbiting the lamp at warp speed before letting go to crash into the floor. On many nights when I was in bed in the dark, I heard a splash and felt her jump into bed with me with sopping wet fur, acting as if nothing had happened. Apparently, she often drove head first into the toilet, unable to stop on the slick seat. A graceful animal she was not, so, of course, I named her Grace. This eventually morphed into Gracie. Gracie Mae.

Gracie Mae is a one-person cat. In other words, I'm it for her. We lived alone in that house for a couple of years. When I was informed by the city that my cul-de-sac was going to be forced through to handle rush hour traffic flow, I decided to sell. After a few showings, my Realtor gently informed me that Gracie needed to be absent from the house while it showed, as she was scaring potential buyers. Apparently, the "Beware of Cat" posters I put on the door were less than welcoming.

The house sold, and I bought a cute little two-story house with peach paint. The Realtor sent a neatly typed, very professional letter thanking both me and Gracie for our business. By this time, Brian had come into the picture and visited often. When we married and his belongings came off the moving truck into my house, all hell broke loose. Before his dresser settled into the carpet on the bedroom floor, Gracie was smack-dab on top of it, hissing and growling at him when he tried to retrieve socks or underwear from the top drawer. She even charged at him on several occasions without warning, wild-eyed and practically foaming at the mouth. I'm not kidding. I have never seen such hatred from man nor beast. I was mortified to have my very own episode of Wild Kingdom showing nightly in my own living room.

As the years passed, Gracie and Brian formed a relationship based on simple tolerance. They now ignore each other unless Gracie wants something that her floppy, useless thumbs won't help her get for herself. My peach-colored house sold while Gracie was temporarily relocated during showings. At one point, my new Realtor had to enter the house alone and said Gracie snarled at her and refused to let her in. Soon thereafter, we moved into a new home, and Erik was born. Gracie seemed to understand what he was and left him alone, hissing at him only when he ventured too close. She is now very good around him, although she can still frighten our visitors by hiding in the guest room and making her presence known right before the lights are extinguished or jumping onto the back of the couch and causing each and every adult buttock there to rise instantly.

And so you have it. The story of Gracie Mae. I love that old girl, and she loves me.

I hope she is okay tomorrow, but, more importantly, I hope that the new vet survives her tangle with terror.