Today: Alicia and I got our cats neutered today, after some hesitancy. We read extensively on the procedure and solicited opinion from various people before coming to the decision that, bottom line, there were no drawbacks to neutering our two boys. I expressed doubt because I reasoned there was nothing wrong with Ovid and Ziggy, who were barely six months old, and wouldn't it be better to wait and see whether the two actually got aggressive with each other, or sprayed, instead of rushing ahead with a permanent, life-changing procedure? But the more research I did, the more I was able to let myself be convinced that neutering cats doesn't actually change them, and so the decision was made.
The vet seemed experienced and trustworthy enough. We actually took the cats to him on Saturday, but Ovid had thrown up earlier that day so he advised we bring them back another day. I suspected he just didn't want to work on Friday, or something, but we agreed to postpone. So we were back today and I put my name to a release form and paid the 70 dollars for each cat and watched as they sedated them -- Ovid first, his eyes going blank, his head dropping like dead weight off to the side -- and brought them from the other room after the 10-minute procedure -- again, Ovid first, his body limp, eyes glued shut by special eyedrop fluid -- and advised us that they might be disoriented after waking, and that we can feed them after six to eight hours. Apparently Ziggy was going to wake up first -- as if that detail mattered.
Here's the thing the vet should have told us, which is what you need to know if you own a cat and deliberating whether to get him neutered: be ready for your heretofore adorable, lively, all-too-trusting pet to hate your guts for eight hours and show its hatred of you by alternately threatening you with a combination of hisses and chill-inducing growls and threatening to do itself bodily harm by wedging into awkward nooks and refusing to eat or drink. It's absolutely gut-wrenching and demoralizing and all kinds of soul-crushing. Rarely have I been so deflated.
"You know the Chinese say 'xin teng,'" Alicia g-chatted me just now. "Like the heart hurts?
"I feel that for our cats."
When we got home, we decided to move the cats out of their carriers. That was our first -- but not last -- mistake. Immediately, they both woke and struggled to get their senses about them. To see such graceful creatures forget how to stand, and bang their heads against the ground and radiator, and crawl like they're missing legs, is panic-inducing. Eventually Ziggy found his way into the drawer and Ovid hid under the futon in the litter-box room.
An hour or two later, Alicia went to check on Ziggy and said she smelled blood. Ziggy had been bleeding earlier, so hearing this sent needles through my body. We opened the wardrobe and Alicia was trying to take Ziggy out to check on him -- she asked me to hold a flashlight -- when he slipped through her arms. PANIC. He scurried away so fast that the two of us were left dumbfounded, heartbeats all out of whack, thinking, Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Next thing we know, Ovid is making the worst sound anyone can possibly hear. Apparently neutering cats piques their territorial instincts, and Ziggy had just displaced Ovid from underneath the futon, which upset something primordial in him. So as we approach the room, we hear a sound that can only be approximately described as the murder of an orgasming sperm whale. It was so loud and piercing and unlike anything that could come from a carbon-based life-form that I wondered, seriously, if the neighbor would call the cops on us. I heard it before I saw him and so I asked Alicia who was making that ungodly noise. Ovid, she said. I tiptoed up to the door like a protagonist in a horror movie approaching the scene of a bloodbath.
Ovid stood there in the middle of the room, spine curled, hair raised, lips unmoving, making that devastating sound over and over. My heart sank a few leagues. I melted onto the floor, sliding with my back against our front door. What was happening?
Eventually I had to usher him into the kitchen, as Alicia needed to catch a plane to Shenzhen and, at the moment, every single move -- like her zipping up her jacket -- was a source of great agitation to Ovid, so I could only imagine (with horror) what the commotion of her lugging a suitcase past him would cause. After Alicia snuck out, I watched as Ovid deliberated whether to leave the kitchen. I was frozen in place, back against the front door once again, just watching as he took tiny steps on his tippy-toes -- a few steps forward, a few back; forward, then back.
After giving Ovid some wet food, of which he took a couple nibbles, I tried to entice Ziggy with some good-smelling Whiskas. He wouldn't budge. I feared the consequences of forcing him out by moving the futon (I gave a half-hearted effort), so I decided to leave the food be. But Ovid, that Ovid -- he wanted his spot back. He made that godforsaken noise again, and that's when I realized I had to shut the door to that room to separate the two. I figured Ovid would not need the litter box anytime soon.
An hour later, I opened the door a crack -- the food inside was untouched, Ziggy still staring intently from his hiding place.
An hour after that, Ziggy was gone.
I searched the wardrobe. I went into the bathroom. I saw Ovid hiding behind a metal latticework, wedged between that and a window (which was cold, I should add). Then, in the living room, I looked up. There he was, up high on a bookshelf, one of the highest spots in the house. The vet had warned us to keep the cats from mounting high places, but this seemed somewhat better than under a bed. At least he was physically strong enough to jump up there (from the back of a sofa).
But the look on Ziggy's face nearly killed me. His pupils were dilated so that it nearly filled his entire eyes, cartoon-like. This is how you would draw a sad cat if you had a Sunday comic strip. His whiskers drooped. His nose, it was apparent, was wet -- half an inch of it was the color of wetness -- as if he had been sniffling. I put my hand on him and he wrinkled his nose and hissed gingerly. I told him it was okay, but possibly I just thought it because there was a lump in my throat.
He would not take food, would not take water. I put a turkey leg next to him, which he sniffed, but he didn't eat.
I took dinner in the living room, Ovid to my right, jammed between a cold window and metal bars, and Ziggy to my left, eyes locked on my every movement as if distrustful to the extreme. I sipped on soup and munched on rice, and everything seemed flavorless.
About an hour after this, I checked on Ziggy again and he was, thankfully, stirring. He wasn't eating, but at least he was interested. And then I was sitting in the bedroom when I heard a plop. By the time I went to check what happened, Ziggy and Ovid were reunited, somewhat -- Ziggy was also between the lattice and the window, except he was high up, on the ledge of the window... and Ovid was hissing at him to get away.
Positioned as such, I was able to reach down and scoop Ziggy up. He didn't like it, but I cradled him as I have so many times before and perhaps it stirred some distant memory for him of being safe. He was confused, and it looked like he wanted to struggle, but would that be a good idea, seeing as how high he was and how comfortable? He fit in my arms perfectly, his tail tucked in, and before he could decide to make a dash for it I was in the other room setting him down in the wardrobe.
And now I turned my attention to Ovid. I had put two t-shirts next to him in an attempt to insulate him somewhat from the cold, but now I knew that he had to be moved. I did not want him catching a cold -- he had already been through so much, including exposure to the winter air while anesthetized. I tried moving him but he would not budge. Every time I got close or laid my hand on him he hissed, and while I knew he'd never bite me, every hiss jabbed me at every tender spot.
I decided to lure him out with food. I placed a packet of freshly opened crab-and-chicken wet food under his nose, and he, amazingly, licked it. An opening! I put some in his bowl and set it just out of his reach. Seeing that he had no intention of going to the bowl while I was there, I had him sniff it again before placing it just out of reach and then vacating the area. I thought to myself, "Animals are easily tricked." But what about humans?
When I next went to the living room, Ovid had both feet outside the lattice. He was approaching. I watched him, making sure he knew that I was watching and not up to anything devious. He didn't mind me watching... this was progress, I knew it.
He came out and ate. And then I put more in his bowl and he ate that as well. Encouraged, I put food in the other bowl and delivered it to Ziggy, who was still in the wardrobe. The tip of his tongue lolled outside his lips, scaring me momentarily. What was wrong? I put the bowl under his nose and he licked the meat. Amazing. And he ate, for the first time in close to 20 hours.
*
As I type, it is 2:03 am and Ziggy is nowhere to be found. This is a good thing. I can only assume he's safe somewhere, and content, and warm.
Ovid is sleeping an arm's length away from me in his favorite spot, a cloth box. He was shivering before, but now he seems at peace. He's a bit sensitive to my movements and sounds, but getting less so. It is obvious that he is in discomfort, possibly even pain, but he looks like he's slowly returning to normal. Now he is licking himself... his arms, mostly, and wiping his face, which was sticky (I dabbed it with a wet paper towel before, which he seemed to like). I feel oddly optimistic.
Ziggy and his sad face
Ovid and the cold window
Ovid, right now
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In the same way, brand and luxury watches were for the rich
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