I'm not a cat person

He is all white with no distinguishing marks beyond his left eye of sea-green and his right eye of sky-blue. At ten-months old, he hasn't seen the best that people have to offer, but it could also be said that he hasn't seen the worst. Instead, he's seen the middle: neglect. That in itself is pretty bad.

I found him where I went looking for him -- in a garage, dark and moist. He was meowing with hunger. When I opened the door to the dank space, smelling sour and dirty, he jumped from the old musty couch and circled the food bowl. He devoured the food as I poured. Petting his back, I glanced across the filthy concrete floor at the trash, at the empty cans of food, upended or upside down, discarded. This cat had been living in a garbage can in the form of a dirty garage.

I was there to take him to the vet, get him neutered, get his shots. And then I was going to try to get him adopted. Although he was not my responsibility, he had been left behind and I was aware of it. That knowledge made me responsible. I felt that someone should take care of him. That someone was me.

While he was devouring the food, I noticed something that didn't look good. In fact, it looked very bad. I don't know how else to say it but to tell you exactly what it was: his insides were coming out of his rear end. I was mortified and afraid. He needed to go to the emergency vet, and he needed to go right this minute, or as soon as he'd eaten to his fill.

Grabbing a towel from atop the dryer by the door, I wrapped it around him, patted his head and told him he would be okay. I hoped I was telling the truth. Honestly, he seemed relieved to be in my arms. He took the drive with surprising calm, peaking from the towel at me and out the window, looking around the car.

When we walked into the emergency room, the receptionist cooed over him, and then asked what was wrong. I dropped part of the towel and showed her. Oh, was all she could say. And then she picked up the phone and said, I need a technician to the front.

It's called a Prolapsed Rectum, and let me tell you there is nothing, nothing at all, that is okay with that. It was heartbreaking to see in this sweet and neglected cat, who was purring in my arms, even though part of his internal organs were hanging from his rear end.

They took the cat away and a couple hours passed. A man brought his aged and graying dog in to be euthanized. He walked out with his friend's leash in his hands, in tears. I glanced up at him and told him I was so sorry for his loss. A couple brought in a puppy with a torn and bloody ear, the loser of a fight over a bone. A young girl came in with her limp but alert poodle in her arms. He had been hit by a car. She too had tears in her eyes.

Animal emergency clinics are a grueling place to spend a Saturday afternoon.

In the examining room, the veterinarian entered to discuss the cat's problems. Prolapsed Rectum, which we had already learned from the technician, but also possibly caused by Feline AIDS or Feline Leukemia. The cat had had no shots in his life so the cause could be many things, the least of which would be parasites. She then explained about the after care following the necessary surgery: He would need round-the-clock care, medications administered, and a host of other things. He would not be adoptable due to his problems, now being what is called a special needs cat. Depending on what they discovered over the next several hours, they wanted me to know that he might not survive.

The estimate for treatment, she said, would be in the area of $1,200.00.

I was gutted. I explained about my 85-pound Cheyenne who doesn't take kindly to cats, about my job and about how providing the kind of care this cat needed was beyond my ability. I felt selfish and confused, my mind scrambled and lurched, but I could not find a way to stretch and fit my abilities around this cat's needs. I had named him Malo earlier in the day, after Raul Malo of the Mavericks. Now, it seemed, I'd saddled him with the name Bad. The only solution, the only kindness I could come up with, that I could give this sick animal, was to have him put down, to show him that mercy. I was angry and sad and resentful to be put in this position by those who had left him, but I couldn't walk away from the responsibility I had taken on, and I would not let this animal suffer any more.

The staff was consoling and understanding of my decision but they mistakenly thought it was financially based. In a swirl of conversation, the doctor said she would reduce the estimate, the receptionist said, I'd take him but I'm paying off some vet bills. I looked at them and said, It's not the money, that's not the issue, it's the care I can't provide. Then I mumbled on and on about my dog, about not having the time in my day to sufficiently tend to the cat's needs, about my plan to get him the care he needed and then get him adopted, but, wiping my nose on my sleeve, I whined, Now he won't even be adoptable. The receptionist interrupted my rambling, said, You'll pay for the treatment? I shook my head yes. Then she said that she would adopt him. Then it was her turn to go on and on. She told me a story about the white cat she had when she was a little girl, how it had scratched her mother and her mother gave it away to the SPCA, how she'd always wanted another white cat.

Malo's luck seemed to be changing.

My head-shaking and tears stopped. The knot in my stomach began to untie itself. She told me she needed to verify with the head of the clinic that the adoption would be acceptable, and to see what the new estimate was, and then left the room.

I stood in the examining room wondering if that had really just happened or if I'd imagined it.

The price came down considerably. I signed some adoption papers, gave my credit card, and there were smiles all around. Malo's name would soon be changed to Lucian and he would receive all the care he needed. They brought him to me and I patted his head, told him he was a very lucky guy. Then I told the receptionist she was an angel, and said goodbye.

This morning, I called to check on him. He does not have AIDS or Leukemia. He came through his surgery like a champ and had also been neutered and given medicine for the parasites, which apparently were the reason for the most obvious problem. I was told that although still a bit woozy from the drugs, he was doing great, purring, and playing with the towel in his cage. The receptionist told me that our baby was going to stay there for 72 hours and have the round-the-clock care that he needed. And then she could take him to his new home where he would live with her, her husband, her daughter and her other cat. Her relief at his surgery success and her excitement to finally have a white cat to call her own poured through the phone.

This is not a fairy tale, but it is sprinkled with some magic. In the end, a group of strangers came together and became the people who did not fail him. In the end, it's really just the beginning for that cat.