Panther's Fine

Panther, if you're coming to this fresh, is my cat, and he's been through the mill in the last few weeks, but after a third hospitalization that lasted almost a week he's been operated on and came through it beautifully. He may come home tomorrow, they're saying. And home, by definition, is where he belongs.

The problem was recurrent urinary blockages, and two comments in the last episode come to mind. One is what an emergency clinician told me last Friday morning. She had recommended that I take him to the veterinary hospital at the University of Pennsylvania, where they do, she said, "cutting-edge" work. She handed me his carrier, with all the tubes and bags coming out of him, with him peering out with the cone around his head, and she gave me a look. It was the look of hopes growing ever slenderer, eyebrows arched, corners of the mouth turned up, eyes sad. "I hope you have a good outcome," she said. She didn't seem to have a lot of hope in her, and she knew more than I ever will about the facts of the matter, and it made me feel pretty desperate.

The night before, I had picked the cat up at my regular vet. They had recommended that he go to the clinic that the emergency clinician worked at. The woman who gave him to me there accompanied me to the car. "Just thank God, or whoever you thank, that you noticed what was going on, because cats die of this," she said. I appreciated her tact—we're not all believers, after all. I try not to appeal to a god I don't believe in on good days when the days turn bad. But tonight, I'm thanking whomever I thank—the Fates, I suppose. They're implacable, but this time they decided my cat can come home, maybe as soon as tomorrow. He's a sweet, gentle creature, with plenty of vitality and fun and companionship and happiness left in him. Thanks for the good wishes, everyone. I wish everyone, cats and dogs and porpoises and people, could be cared for and healthy and happy. But he's really and truly a nice little guy, and I can't think how the world would be better if he—well—let's just say the world is better if he's in it. It took a lot of effort, a lot of science brought to bear, but it was a pretty damn satisfactory outcome. I'll write to that vet, and tell her so. She didn't sound so sure, at the time. Her advice was sound—maybe she saved his life—and it might be a pleasure for her to know it worked out. I don't know if she'll be moved to thank whomever she thanks herself, but she ought to have the opportunity.