It’s just five pm, and the love is in the air. Young couples start meeting, old couples start their weekend, family gathering, a little dinner by the candle light, travelers come home, or start dropping by for a getaway. Shoppers find their paradise.
Here we are. Me in front of the computer, working; Sheilla outside, cleaning. Tuna day every Wednesday and Saturday should be easy for us; because we don’t need to cook, and all the cats will have all the fun and leave us alone.
We should be done by eleven this morning; but yesterday night came a message in Instagram about a stray cat mother who gave birth to seven kittens on top of a sewage line in the basement of a government owned (and run) pulmonary clinic, and never again made it home.
Seven kittens. How can we afford them? Even with the two of us working round the clock finds us sleeping at midnight and restart at dawn.
And I am the sole breadwinner of the family.
Belle suddenly have asthma attacks, and she breathes so heavily, she cannot eat more than three licks at a time, much less walk from one room to the other, although our entire house is mere 36 square meters.
To be or not to be, that is the question!
So we dumped twelve pounds of steamed tuna into the chiller, and went separate ways. Sheilla to the kittens, me to the vet.
She had to go into the contaminated drainage line because three of the kittens fell down under. One did not make it, but six went out to the new world.
My vet was screaming at me as soon as I opened the door to her downtown clinic. There is a cat just hit by car, whose owner was angrily adamant that he has no hope and should be PTS. All the riot and loud voices, and she stayed at the other end of the room, while the cat and her helpless maid is on the table.
Long story short – after four vets, two vet techs and a rescuer: she didn’t want to spend too much money on treating the cat, so it should be gone. Period.
So the cat stayed in the clinic because no one want to PTS a cat without trying, and before we were halfway done treating him there were two emergency cases and my vets were tugged everywhere.
Two emergencies done, two more come. Four surgery had to be postponed, and in the middle of all the explanation, three more emergencies, two panicky pet owner, and a stressed cat from another (unregistered) rescue house who always boasted to me about them getting volunteers and not me. Well, as far as I ever know during my hours in the clinic, none of the volunteers want to go beyond carrying the basket in, put it on the table and be gone with their Instagram selfie. In today’s case, the volunteer is a beautiful young lady with a frilly satin dress who looks as if she is on a date (or ready to be so) and therefore not a single finger on the crying kitty.
Every single person who can handle cats in that clinic had their moment running into the bathroom, or the kitchen, to simply said “what the heck?” took a deep breath and ran back out to deal with our lively Saturday.
We forgot lunch, and when we remember, forget about it. We have six very hungry kittens who climb and cry and snuggle everyone. Mika and Mama White (Soon Pinky Ubiquitous Lee, for Kim Woolbright) came to help, but none of them stayed put until each has their tummy filled to the brim.
We need to buy an oxygen tank for Belle and build a small crate, or chamber to put her in and be filled with oxygen (or nebulizer) every time she has her asthma attacks.
That moment when (naturally) one would say “Enough! Just once I am doing this!” and “No More!”, “Finito!”
But this is our Saturday night life, and we don’t need to sing “One day I’ll be Saturday night” because in our part of the world, everyday is Saturday night and our Saturday night is alive.
Can you help us with our lively Saturday?