Four Legged Friends: Remembering Ebenezer

It was in the late 1990s that a woman I knew named Barbara contacted me about a stray cat she had taken in. Barbara wasn’t allowed to have pets in her apartment. Despite that, she had captured a cat that was hanging around her neighborhood and brought him home. She was hoping I would take him, at least temporarily, because her landlord had found out about the cat. She had hidden him in her basement. He was very unhappy down there, hollering and carrying on. She refused to take him to an animal shelter. She didn’t believe anyone would adopt him, and she didn’t want him to be put to sleep.

Ebenezer was truly a character.

After a lot of back and forth communications, I agreed to give him a home. She was living in New Hampshire, and I was in Brighton. I asked her to take him to the vet in New Hampshire where it would cost less — I refused to take him unless she did because I didn’t want to risk my current cat’s health. She agreed. The report from her vet indicated the cat was healthy and had an “old injury resulting in a limp.” We agreed on a date for her to deliver the cat to me.

Barbara was calling the cat Nigel. The minute I laid eyes on him, I knew he was no Nigel. He was enormous. Not fat, but tall and long and just gigantic. He had been someone’s pet at some point. He was neutered and declawed. Who knows when or where he was lost or abandoned. Barbara said there were no flyers in her neighborhood posted by anyone missing a cat. He may have roamed a long way, or it might have been simply that no one wanted him anymore.

I left him in his carrier while Barb and I talked. After she left, I confined my cat (Miss Parker) to the bedroom, and I opened up the carrier and let him out. He was outgoing and seemed to want me to pick him up, so I did. And he screamed bloody murder, and scratched me on the face. I knew instantly there was something seriously wrong with him. He wanted to be held, but was in serious pain. I couldn’t believe Barb’s vet had declared him in good health. I made an appointment at Angell Memorial to have another vet look at him. The initial diagnosis at Angell was the same, “old injury.” I wasn’t buying it. I insisted on x-rays.

I waited quite a long time in the exam room with my gigantic buddy. Finally the vet came back looking rather chagrined. She said something along the lines of, “I’m so sorry I doubted you.” The x-rays showed that his hip socket was shattered into so many pieces there was no hope of repairing it. The treatment possibilities were all well beyond my financial means at the time, and I was pretty angry that Barb’s vet had not caught the major problem. I decided the best thing to do would be to contact Barb and see what she wanted to do. She was a lawyer who made a lot more money than I did, and she had said, “I want to help with his care” when she left him with me.

She contacted her vet who was so embarrassed that he missed the broken hip he offered to operate for free. He asked us to pay only his actual costs, and we agreed. Rather than repair the socket, he was going to remove it entirely, and let the head of the cat’s femur rest in the muscles of the hip area.

About 10 days later, she returned him to me. He looked ridiculous with his hind end shaved. I spent hours looking for the photo I took of him in his “half-dressed” state, but was unable to find it. He was full of spunk, and walking just fine. It looked like his life could finally start over with me — a healthy, happy cat back inside where he belonged.

I named him Ebenezer. It seemed like a good name for a cat who loved to snuggle with me, but would bite me if I tried to move him. He weighed 20 pounds. He and Miss Parker got along just fine. All was well, except when we had to go to the vet, where he turned into a Tasmanian devil. His file was marked in big red letters, “Dangerous animal,” and the doctors refused to work on him without putting a leather hood over his head. He clawed me up so badly during one visit the vet suggested I head to the nearest emergency room (bad cat scratches can be dangerous — “cat scratch fever” is a real thing). Despite that, I loved that cat. He was truly a character.

I only had him for about a year when he developed bladder stones. It was an anguishing decision to have him put to sleep rather than subject him to more surgery and numerous torturous veterinary visits. I had a house call vet come to my apartment, and I held him in my lap while he passed away quietly. He went through so much in his life, it meant a lot to me to give him peace in the end.

I imagine what happened to him was that he got out of his house, was hit by a car, and crawled off somewhere. When he got hungry enough, he sought out people. That’s when Barb found him. A smaller cat would probably not have survived with a broken hip and no claws, but Ebenezer did. He endured so much pain and loss. Yet he remained outgoing and fearless. So many people let him down. Whoever lost him and didn’t find him. Barb, for not seeing how much pain he was in. Barb’s vet, for doing only a cursory exam. At least he had a happy year at the end of his days. Letting him go was, I felt, the kindest choice.

Knowing the dangers that await cats who are allowed to roam, I don’t even consider it. Ours is not a safe world for small pets to be out on their own. I accept that he may have snuck out on his former owner. Some cats are like that. But in all my years of owning cats, I’ve never had one get past me. It’s not all that hard to outwit a cat.

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Posted by Susan Scheide on Aug 5 2016. Filed under Featured Content, Opinion. Both comments and pings are currently closed.