Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [72]
Maybe, I thought, but not without full instructions first. I was about to make a comment but decided it was wiser not to as, just then, the darkroom door opened and Lucy emerged. ‘The X-rays are ready,’ she said quietly.
‘Then bring them out, please,’ said Mandy. ‘We’re waiting to see them.’
I noticed the royal “we”. It gave me an inkling of what was bugging Lucy.
I could see Lucy bite her bottom lip as she turned back into the darkroom and re-emerged holding two radiographs.
Mandy snatched them from her and clipped them up on the viewing screen. ‘Hmm … just as I suspected,’ she said, studying them closely, ‘multiple fractures of the pelvis.’
‘Er … excuse me, Mandy, may I?’ I stepped forward and started looking at the X-rays myself. The lateral view of the spine revealed no obvious damage to the spinal vertebrae, though this didn’t rule out the possibility of spinal trauma as nerves could still be crushed without the damage being seen on an X-ray. Did Mandy know that?
Seems she did, since she said, ‘That doesn’t mean to say there’s no damage to the spinal cord.’
Grrr. As to the pelvis, Mandy was right there, too – there were multiple fractures. Another grrr. Talk about nerves. This little madam was certainly beginning to get on mine.
But I had to let that go for now. We – I mean, I – had a cat with a paralysed back. The bystander’s words came back to me – ‘Reckon she’s a goner …’ For a moment, I did wonder. Was I being unkind to keep her alive? Then I remembered Mrs Munroe’s corgi. That had seemed a hopeless case with the X-ray showing a vertebra dislocated upwards, crushing the spinal cord and causing complete paralysis of the hindquarters. Yet Mrs Munroe had insisted on giving the dog a chance. And though it took over six weeks, he did manage to walk again.
The trouble was, here the little tortoiseshell cat didn’t have anyone to champion her cause – no owner to support her. No one but us to help nurse her through the difficult days and weeks ahead.
‘Doesn’t look too good,’ said Mandy, still looking at the X-rays.
‘I think we should give her a chance,’ Lucy suddenly declared.
Mandy turned on her. ‘She’ll take a lot of nursing. There’ll be no bladder control. So that will have to be emptied manually each day. And she’s bound to get constipated. It could take weeks before we see any improvement.’ From her tone, it was clear she was far from enthusiastic about the idea.
‘I still think it’s worth a go,’ said Lucy, her voice suddenly filling with determination. ‘Even if you don’t.’
That’s my girl, I thought. You go for it.
Mandy whirled round on me, her cheeks flushed, eyes questioning. Now, of course, I was in no doubt as to what to say. And I said it with glee. ‘We’ll try.’
As expected, the job of looking after the tortoiseshell cat was delegated to Lucy – no surprises there. But she didn’t seem to mind, even though it was an onerous task and time-consuming.
I watched one such session. The cat’s bladder manually expressed, the faecal boluses carefully manipulated out, the hindquarters washed down, dried and dusted with talcum powder. It was done with quiet efficiency, no sign of emotion, no sentiments expressed.
‘Sweet little thing, isn’t she?’ I said, hoping to provoke some response. But no … Lucy just got on with the task without comment.
‘No one’s claimed her, you know.’ Actually, Lucy did know. I was just reminding her of the fact. Joan Spencer had put a card up in the post office and Reverend James had mentioned her at the end of one of his sermons. Bless him. But nobody had come forward, though several people reported they’d been visited by her for short periods. No one, it seems, had come up to her expectations.
‘Yet she’s so friendly,’ I persisted. ‘Can’t imagine she’s a feral cat.’
Still no response from Lucy.
Three days after the accident, the tortoiseshell cat was strong enough to lift herself up on her front legs. During my morning ward rounds, I’d tickle her whiskers and she’d respond by rubbing