A Pet's Pain is a Heavy Burden for Humans to Bear

Belle is back in action
I’m covered in cat hair, but I’m relieved. Belle, my friend’s kitty, is leaving Mission MedVet.

Two hours ago she sat in my lap, madly meowing and panting like a puppy. Her eyes, nose and ears were outlined in red. She nuzzled my neck and rubbed her furry face against mine.

We couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like her limpy left leg and a bad landing from a low table could have led to a dislocated shoulder.

The waiting room at the emergency pet hospital was still. We could feel the sadness in the air. About eight other people sat hoping to hear from doctors soon. Someone cried.

A nurse led a cuddly-cute dog down the hall, but just before it got back to the waiting room, it hunched back to … well, you know. Duty sometimes calls at odd times.

For a second I let myself believe this would offer some comic relief. Crude, I know. But I felt like we were trapped in a box of dark and twisty feelings, and something had to give.

As it turned out the pretty pup didn’t poop after all. Instead, as we walked toward a private room, we stepped around the small pool of blood it had left behind. My heart settled on my stomach.

Belle began to calm down once we were in our own space. We let her out of her cage, and she walked her usual, uneven strut. Only much slower. My friend thought maybe, somehow, she had popped her shoulder back in. I started to realize Belle’s emergency couldn’t be nearly as bad as what we were seeing.

I had a feeling she’d be all right. I tried to believe that everyone’s pet would be all right. Surely, they would all make it through this night.

And then, from outside the room, we heard an outburst of synchronized shrieking that froze us in time. A woman screamed as her little girl howled: Don’t killllllllllllll my caaaaaaaaaaaaaaat. You can’t. Don’t killllllllllllll my caaaaaaaaaaaaaaat.

All we could do to endure their suffering was huddle together on a small bench in the corner of the room. Belle had hobbled back into her cage and remained still during the storm of sobs.

Minutes seemed like hours. I wanted to run out of the room and comfort the girl. But what can you say?

A nurse walked in to take Belle’s temperature and check out her walk. Her entrance broke our trance. You could see the sobbing little girl’s grief had taken a toll on her, too, but she managed to give us a smile.

The doctor came in minutes later. After stretching the kitty’s legs, she concluded Belle might have arthritis in her left hip or maybe a soft tissue injury. X-rays would be needed, but, for now, pain meds would do.

As we walked through the waiting room on the way out, we saw some new faces, people worried about their furry friends. I prayed for them, but I couldn’t get home fast enough.

I opened the door to my apartment, and I didn’t even try to stop my dog from jumping all over me.

I kicked off my shoes but left on the rest of my cat-hair-covered clothes. I needed a hug.

We climbed on the couch, and Charli gave me a sloppy kiss.

Jeneé Osterheldt’s column runs in FYI on Tuesday and Saturday. To reach her, call 916-234-4380 or e-mail josterheldt@kcstar.com.