I’m sitting here at the vet’s office—a place all-too-familiar when you’re a more-than-middle-aged animal lover in a small town. There’s only one place to go. Doc Whitby’s, with its always-full gravel lot—watch your step, not all of those round bits are gravel. Glass entry doors with slobber and sneeze snot spots. High-backed Formica benches replaced the old burgundy vinyl seating that had sported nail punctures and the smell of sick. A shelf of high-end nutritional options for canines and felines spans one wall.
A frequent flyer here, I’ve used the free-standing clean-up station with the toweling dispenser and antiseptic cleanser more than once. The waiting room always smells of wet dog and antiseptic, even when you’re the first patient on the roster. Windows out to the highway span the other wall, letting in the faintest of early morning June rays. It’s cloudy—gray clouds at that. That gravel lot will be muddy soon enough. When Spencer was with us, I would’ve worried about the potential for thunderstorms. Thunder freaked that pooch out bigtime. But no need to worry about that today. I’m here with Malachi and the fur ladies back home don’t worry about storms—they’re much too dignified for that.
Tammy, Dr. Whitby’s older-than-time tech, and Zara, the fresh new girl, scurry at the computers tucked behind the check-in counter. Today’s scrub color is aqua. Because it’s Tuesday. Yesterday would have been burgundy and tomorrow the techs will wear navy. I told you I’m a first-name basis frequent flyer here.
“Be with you and Malachi in a moment, Renee.” Tammy whizzes back and forth, shuffling charts and lines of prescriptions waiting to be picked up. “It’s gonna be crazy today.”
“No worries,” I say. When is it not crazy at Doc Whitby’s?
Around the rim of the counter, a few metal hooks protrude to secure leashes while the credit cards come out and discharge paperwork is completed. Short girl problems, I’ve had my fair share of bruised arms from those hooks on the elevated counter, wrestling dogs of old and cats of current…
And then there’s the battery-operated flameless pillar candle. With the cute/comforting poem that’s neither cute nor comforting. If the candle is lit, it means someone’s in the goodbye-for-now room and lets those waiting their turn know to keep the chaos to a contained minimum. I know. I’ve been in that room many times with many fur babies over the years.
The candle’s not lit this morning. I’m glad for that.
And don’t worry. My tale doesn’t end with a glow from that candle. Just so you can relax. Keep the Kleenex for another time.
The most interesting thing in the whole waiting room is the much-dreaded and completely terrifying three-inch-high weighing platform. I swear they should set up a camera aimed solely at that scale. Make a fortune on viral videos of dogs doing the freak-out-four-step when the owners and vet techs try to coax the poochy patients onto the stainless-steel demon.
I look at the hard-sided carrier next to me and bend to peek at Malachi through the door. He blinks at me with those gorgeous, lazy eyes of his, never fully opened. Always looking like he’s just waking up, even at his most alert. “Keep your socks on, buddy.” I wave a finger at him through the grate. He blinks again.
My handsome man. White and tabby. Mostly white. Black beans and pink beans and some half black and half pink. Oh, those beans are why we’re here… I think.
We’d named him Maybelline when we’d thought he was a she. I’m a dog person. I had no idea how to sex a cat, let alone a malnourished, fragile bit of fur. But those eyes, outlined in thick black and blended up into the stripes on the sides of his face looked like he’d just exited the makeup artist’s chair. When we realized he was a he and not a she, we adjusted the name. Malachi Maxwell.
And so you know, all of our critters have had middle names—or two or three middles sometimes—and several nicknames. That’s just part of being a family.
There was Blossoms Beverly the Boston Terrier. There was Bandit Bulldog, also a Boston. Boomer—I was too little to remember his middle, but I know there was one. Chloe Patches—motherly mutt of a cocker/lab mix. Spencer Doodles—a high-maintenance seizure-prone Schnauzer. Winston Walter Conrad—English bulldog with such high-end medical issues we nearly pitched a tent outside in the poopy gravel.
My next dog will be a Dane. Large, lanky. Female. Preferably brindle or tawny, but any color will do. Already have a name string picked.
Neema Suellen Grace. See? I’m a dog person.
There was that first cat, though. Cosmo Quasimodo. Made it sixteen years. Never intended to have a cat—ever. But when you’re walking with your four-year-old and she tells you that God himself sent her this flea-bitten mangy cat and the child starts dancing in the street, singing praises to the Almighty… Well, who was I, or her father, to tell her that Cosmo wasn’t the cat God had picked out for her. That critter made his home in ours for sixteen years. But he was raised by Chloe Patches and Spencer Doodles, so he never really was very cat-ish. I think having dog parents broke part of his feline instincts.
I peek into the carrier again. Malachi’s chilled, stretching in his blue plastic hideout like he’s done this a thousand times. He hasn’t, he’s not a year old yet. And, unfortunately, he’s not a dog, so I won’t get the pleasure of a performance at the scales. The tech will take him and the carrier to the back and weigh them in private. Like cats care what the outcome will be.
I’m a dog person.
How I ended up with three cats is beyond me.
The door chime signals an incoming wave of guaranteed chaos. I scoot on the bench a little further down and away from the glass door. I can already hear toenails scratching the tile floor and an owner barking ignored instructions. “Calm down. Calm down.”
I brace my hand over Malachi’s crate. He’s still chilled. Nothing bothers him. Nothing. The dog—a black and white Dane!—comes pulling her owner through the waiting area, legs going everywhere. Drool flying. The lady, a petite twenty-something, is no match for the dog’s energy. Tammy springs to action.
“Why don’t you go ahead and put Gypsy on the scales and we’ll take her back. We’ve got some more cats coming—”
Gypsy puts her front feet onto the counter, knocking over the candle and sending the plastic-framed poem to the floor.
Zara, who’d gone to prep a room, came running from the hall to assist, her black ponytail coming undone as she helped wrestle the dog. Everyone’s yelling and grabbing, and I’m not fast enough with my camera to shoot footage of the fiasco at the scales. I’m telling you, there’s money to be made there.
The owner ends up on her butt, looking up at Gypsy and trying to reason with the pooch that if she’d just stand still she’d get a treat. The dog’s hindquarters vibrate with fear and nervous energy and Zara finally gives the all-clear. They’d gotten the weight—120 pounds. “Good job, Gypsy! What a good puppy. And you’re not done growing yet.”
Puppy? Over a hundred…
Well, I’m still a dog person. I may need to rethink the breed that will go with the name Neema Suellen Grace.
As Tammy and the owner try to regain control over Gypsy, the dog suddenly stops pulling. Sits. Lies on her stomach. Rolls over to her side. Closes her eyes. And starts snoring.
Oh no.
I look in on Malachi.
He blinks sleepy lids at me. Almost grinning, I swear. But he’s taken off his front right bootie and he’s spread his toes.
All. The. Way. Spread.
Even hooked one of his razor nails on the grate of the door.
And you thought I told him to keep his socks on because he had some sort of fur pattern resembling shoes or socks. And that I was encouraging this kitten to be patient. To wait his turn.
Nope.
I put purple knitted baby booties on my Malachi Maxwell. To cover his toes.
Because every time he spreads his perfectly padded black beans, someone—or something—in direct line of sight of those toes drifts to sleep. Gypsy must’ve seen Malachi’s foot.
Tammy and Zara stare in awe at the massive dog spread in front of the scale. The owner goes frantic, thinking her prized companion has succumbed to a seizure or a stroke, tears streaming. I spin the carrier around and place it on my lap. I unhook Malachi’s nail and, trying hard not to go under myself, I open the door, fish around for the lost sock, and replace the bootie without looking directly at his beans. I’ve done this before, too. Blindly dressing my cat in booties.
“Malachi Maxwell!” I whisper harshly. No one notices, though. Everyone is too worked up about the napping Dane. Tammy yells for Dr. Whitby to come. Zara nudges Gypsy with her toes to no avail.
“Malachi! See what you’ve done? Keep. Them. On.”
How do you reason with a cat?
He readjusts his position, lies flat on his stomach and tucks his two front bootied feet under his breastbone. And blinks.
“—Gypsy. Please. Please. Oh. Oh. Good girl. What was that? What did you do? Are you sleepy today? Huh?” Gypsy struggles to her feet, stumbling like a drunk after a bender. The ruckus moves down the hallway before Doc makes his appearance. Tammy leads the way, shaking her head. Owner Lady gives Gypsy, who’s still drowsy but on all fours, a pep talk. Zara brings up the rear, but not before she glances in our direction, her ponytail no longer, black hair spread all over her aqua shoulders.
And gives a look of, well… How could she possibly know what I know? I don’t even know what I know, and he’s my cat. But it’s like she knows.
I don’t realize it until now, but as soon as that Dane hit the ground, outside of whispering to Malachi, I’ve been holding my breath. I let out a long sigh, willing my heart to stop pounding, and I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans, picking up several white and black cat hairs for my efforts.
I turn the carrier full around so Malachi’s only view—and his toes’ only victim should he ditch the booties again—will be the back of the Formica bench. “Time out, buster. Not cool. Not cool.”
A few more patients come. The staff apologizes to me for the wait—they are working Malachi in between the already-scheduled fur babies—and they apologize to me for the Dane scare. I should be the one apologizing to Gypsy.
While I sit here with this cat, praying he keeps his boots on, and watching as other mutts and purebreds fight with the scales and other kitties wail from their carriers, let me tell you how Malachi came to be mine.
It was almost a year ago. July in the Midwest. A triple-digit-check-on-the-elderly kind of heat wave. I was driving home from my own doctor’s appointment—allergy testing which all came back negative, that’s why I’m here today with Malachi. Something is wrong with my cat…—and I saw a group of middle-school-aged kids gathered and pointing and laughing at something. Then I see fur flying. Black and white fur. Orange and white fur.
The prepubescent monsters were kicking kittens into oncoming traffic. I slam on my brakes and, after a few choice words to society’s hope and future and a promise to call the cops if they don’t scatter, I find three babies. Pot-bellied and clueless. Scared. No momma in sight. Two were orange and white with crusty blue eyes. The other—Maybelline/Malachi—white and gray tabby. I scooped them up, so fragile I thought I’d surely send them to the Rainbow Bridge with the lightest of touches, and right there in the middle of the road, I emptied a box of emergency car supplies onto the back seat and place the kitties in the box.
Doc Whitby had given me the hard truth that day. He’d have to charge an arm and a leg for these kitties’ care and they may not make it. Probably wouldn’t make it. A rescue free-care shelter was their best bet.
Drove two counties over to the best one I knew of. The same shelter that had rescued and rehabilitated our two ladies waiting at home: Stella Marie and Amara Mino. But this isn’t their story. It’s Malachi’s. The kittens cried all the way for their fur momma, who was off who knows where doing who knows what. If she were even alive.
But the Alliance was full up. Waiting room packed. The vet took a peek and said they’d likely not make it a day or two. Make them comfortable. Same thing Doc Whitby had said.
Punch-to-the-gut news. I tell you. Two vets. And I know cats and cases like this are a dime a dozen, but I saw these babies flying into traffic. Evil, evil feet kicking them and making sport of it. I couldn’t bear it.
But what do I know of these things? Remember, except for that sixteen-year stint with Cosmo-the-not-quite-a-cat, I’m a full-on dog person.
I drove the whining box of kittens to our farm supply store and bought the most expensive (though not as expensive as humane euthanasia or critical care) replacement cat milk and kitten food I could find. High end, I tell you.
Kitty flea meds.
Kitty de-wormer.
The whole kit-and-kaboodle.
If my husband were around he’d have told me to let it go. Let nature take its course. And if he’d been around, I would’ve told him I am a force of nature and I’ll decide the course.
At least give the poor things a shot.
And we—Minnie, Moose, Maybelline, and I—started the long, hot process of de-fleaing, de-worming, and generally providing nourishment in the humid garage, rickety box fans blowing in all directions, a kiddie swimming pool filled with bagged ice to lie against. Did you know cats pant? Triple-digit heat wave, I tell you.
It tore my gut in two to keep those furballs outside in the heat. But we had Stella and Amara to think about, and I did have enough sense to know that the babies could be carrying some deadly disease, and I didn’t want to expose our grown lady cats to kitty crud. So the babies had to stay in the garage. And every couple of hours I fully expected to find a dead one. Or two.
From the heat. From failure-to-thrive. From a virus or bacteria that bombarded their cells. From injuries unknown. From whatever.
But as the hours and days went on, that didn’t happen. They started to perk up. Brighten up. We cleaned them and babied them and let them explore more and more of the backyard. Even the hubs got attached to the time spent and would text me from work to ask how they were getting along.
The girls, Minnie and Moose, thrived. Playing, hopping, hunting bugs and moles, and climbing our giant Osage orange trees with the greatest of ease and agility.
Maybelline/Malachi? Not so much.
We’d had them for a few weeks before we realized she was a he. Changed his name. But the entire time, even though he’d done well eating and growing a little, he didn’t have the energy of his sisters. Nor the coordination. He fell out of the tree three times. Once I was fast enough to catch him. Twice not so lucky, so we wouldn’t let him climb the tree anymore. He didn’t seem to mind being grounded and hung at our feet. Sleepy. Lazy.
He’d get tangled in all manner of things. I found him nearly strangled in the hammock net, he’d twisted and twisted until his neck was so tightly bound by the ropes, that he went unconscious in my hands before I could spin him out of the ropey twists. I freed him finally, tapped on his chest and breathed in his face, begging and pleading for him to respond. Tears streaming down my cheeks like Gypsy’s owner just moments ago. Totally freaked out.
But Malachi came to and snuggled into my neck.
And that was it. That was the moment.
I’d been commissioned by the hubs to find homes for them, and a kind neighbor wanted the trio for her barn. They’d be great hunters and earn their keep, and in the country, they’d be out of harm’s way of traffic and mean-middle-school cretins. But that moment that Malachi regained consciousness in my arms (started his second of nine lives), I knew he wasn’t cut out to be a barn cat. Him with his mascara-lined eyes and that crazy little orange freckle on his lip—the shape of a lopsided heart the color of his more-capable sisters.
He didn’t have the brain cells for barn life. He’d be dead in a day, breaking his neck from a fall out of the hay loft or nap under a tractor tire. I shuddered to think of it. Probably let the mice nibble him to bits before he’d take one of them out to dinner.
So Malachi Maxwell was adopted. Cleared by Doc Whitby. Introduced to Stella Marie, the fluffy long-haired tabby (who was glad for a friend) and Amara Mino, the diluted calico short hair (who stress ate and protested the intrusion for weeks), and he became mine.
My bitty buddy.
“Malachi Maxwell?” Tammy’s ready for us. “Sorry for your wait.”
I stand, stretch and after checking that his booties are on, I hand the carrier over to her, praying silently that he keeps his toes covered.
“Let me, Tammy. Gypsy’s owner could use a hand.” Zara takes the carrier from us. She’s pulled her hair up into a tight bun this time. She winks at me.
I’m not sure how to respond. So I just smile at her. “Uh. He, uh. Likes those booties. And they don’t weigh much, so…”
She smiles. She knows. “I’ll keep his socks on. No worries.” Malachi and Zara head through the back to the behind-the-scenes kitty scale. She sing-songs to him as they go. “What great purple boots you have, Malachi. I’m quite jealous.”
And I know, I know. Purple isn’t a very manly color, but it’s what I had. I was just lucky I found the knitting needles. I can barely read a pattern. Took it up when I thought I would be animal-less for a while after Spencer Doodles crossed the Rainbow Bridge. Something to relax me. Something low maintenance.
It wasn’t relaxing. It was the most frustrating hobby I’ve ever encountered. I only managed to learn doll booties and a doll-sized bonnet and a loopy hand warmer thing before giving up. Purple was on sale. So little man Malachi Maxwell wears purple.
I wait in the examination room, the hallway door closes behind me, muffling the bustle of two howling bassets in the waiting area. A menacing exam table protrudes from the wall, rib high on me (short girl problems). All my dogs hated the human-assisted hoist onto that table. The counter in the corner holds various innocuous supplies—cotton balls, wooden depressors, swabs. Informative graphics warning pet owners of the dangers of heartworm and feline leukemia plaster the wall around a tiny whiteboard with a blue dry-erase marker tied on a string. A light box waits for x-rays and likely bad news for those whose pets should need that service.
The second door to the exam room—the one that leads to the lab and surgical areas—opens and Zara places Malachi’s carrier on the table, the door facing me.
He kept his booties on. What a good boy…
“So what brings you two in today?” She flips through his chart. “He seems to be growing just fine. I take it he’s got foot issues?” She glances up at me with that knowing look.
I don’t even know where to start, so I babble on from the beginning. Taking a big risk. “I think he’s got some chemical imbalance or something. I think his feet. Well, I think—”
Doc comes in from the lab door. I change my mind mid-telling and let Doc lead.
“Hey, buddy! Hello Renee.” He opens the door to Malachi’s carrier. The cat doesn’t bother to come out, even when Whitby dangles the end of his stethoscope across the table. Malachi sticks out one purple foot, then the other and peeks around the corner. At the Doc. At me. At Zara. Then pulls his bootied feet back inside and tucks them under his breastbone and blinks in slow motion.
“Well, if that’s how it’s going to be.” Doc unscrews the nuts from around the rim of the carrier and lifts off the top, effectively exposing Malachi without disturbing his catness.
Spoiled rotten, he is. I’d have just pulled him out if it hadn’t been for the toe issues. I take a seat to give Doc and the tech room to maneuver. “Let’s give you a good look-over.” Doc begins his standard of care exam, avoiding the paws, and asks, “So…he’s got some nail issues?” He massages Malachi’s front foot through the bootie. “He likes to keep his nails out, doesn’t he?”
“Well, he does, actually. Most of the time. He’s almost a year old and he still can’t seem to retract them to walk across carpet or the back of the couch. He’s constantly caught in something and just lazes with a foot caught here or there or a dish towel dragging behind him until I untangle his toes.”
Doc laughs. Zara giggles and scratches Malachi behind his ears. Mal leans into her hand, and I hear his motor start up.
“So you want him declawed?” Doc asks.
I jump from the bench. “Heavens no!” I nearly call the man a toenail Nazi, but I’d better not ostracize the only vet for miles around. I grab Malachi from his now open-topped carrier.
“Well, there’s not much I can—”
“Look, Doc.” I say. “I think he’s oozing some chemical or something from his feet. I just don’t know how to explain it.”
“Okay, okay. Let’s take a look.”
Zara jumps between Doc and me. “Let me help.”
While I have Malachi tucked under my armpit, Zara carefully removes his front booties. “Don’t look directly at them.” I squint. Just in case. I do have to drive home, you know.
Doc feels both front paws and gently turns them to inspect the pads. I brace myself.
Then Doc braces himself, leaning against the table. “Wow. Zara, I don’t see anything here, do you? My apologies, Renee. I must not’ve eaten enough breakfast this morning.” He wipes his brow on his shirt sleeve. “Take over, here, Zara? I think he’s okay. I think, Renee, you’re a dog person. Cats will tell you when they need something…No worries. He’ll grow into his toes.”
I think Doc is a dog person. I think Doc just got a tiny dose of Malachi’s toe jam, and he stumbles through to the lab, shaking his head and patting his cheeks. I’ve seen that move before after an encounter with Mal’s toes.
Zara motions for me to sit. She sits next to me and replaces Malachi’s booties. I flip him over like the baby he is, and kiss his lopsided heart freckle. He purrs and closes his eyes, four purple paws relaxed and undercover. “You’re impossible,” I whisper. Zara hears.
“Start from the beginning. Tell me everything.” She pats me on the leg. I notice a freckle on her wrist, a not-quite-oval. More like, well… Like a lopsided heart the color of Malachi’s birth sisters. “I promise I’ll believe you.”
So I tell her. About the sleepiness—mine, not Malachi’s. About the sisters going to the farm. About, well. Strange things around the house in general.
She grins, a strand of black hair brushes her cheek. She reaches that freckled hand up to push it back, and the thing—that lopsided heart thing—glowed. She rubs Malachi’s belly. “Renee! Congratulations! You’ve rescued a Mag-Line. I knew it as soon as Gypsy hit the floor in the waiting room.”
“A what?”
“A Mag-Line. Half Magic. Half Feline. Well, in Malachi’s instance, he may be just one-quarter. But you were wise to do the bootie thing. His dosing is relatively light. But he could grow into it…” Zara says all of this like she’s done it a hundred times.
Cat puts people to sleep? Oh, no worries. You’ve got yourself a standard-issue Mag-Line. Cat wears booties? Good job raising that Mag-Line, Renee. She stands and readies the carrier, screwing the top back on so I can place Malachi inside. We close the door. He barely woke up to reposition himself. Nothing bothers that cat. He and Zara have a lot in common.
Freckles and all.
She digs into her scrub pocket and pulls out a card. An orange glittery emblem in the top right corner matches my cat’s lip freckle. And the one on my vet tech’s wrist.
“We’ve been seeing an increase in these cases. It’s contagious, you know. The Mag-Line’s magic. Any problems with your other cats?”
I don’t even know where to begin. There’s a number and an address on the card. One county over. “What are you telling me? Contagious?” Now, I find myself to be a reasonable human being most of the time. Grounded. Even was reasonable enough to leave Malachi and his malnourished sisters in the hot garage while they convalesced so our other cats wouldn’t catch mange or fleas or something… But this? Magic?
“Only rarely. Only if there’s a genetic link. Only with other felines, so you won’t sprout magical toes.” Zara laughs at her own joke. I’m not finding any of this funny. Neither is my jaw, which hangs in a semi-permanent open state. “There’s a support group for owners. Bring Malachi. Being with the older cats will help him tame down and not use his, well, use his toes on you.” Zara giggles again and uses a finger to scratch my bitty buddy’s head through the carrier door.
“Call me anytime, Renee. Day or night. We’ll get you and Malachi through this.” She hands me the carrier. “Better settle up out front before the next wave of pooches comes through. Tammy wouldn’t understand. Doc, either, if all of the canines hit the ground in snores. They’re dog people anyway.” I’m speechless. Zara opens the hall door for me and I walk through a wave of confusion to the front desk. Tammy’s trying to fix the be-quiet candle that Gypsy knocked off.
I hand her my credit card, careful to keep Malachi’s door away from curious onlookers of any species. She swipes it. Says something about a follow-up appointment for shots. Zara’s shaking her head at me behind Tammy with a finger to her lips.
Secret.
Magic cats. Contagious ones.
Well, that explains it. If this is something that can be explained.
Purple booties.
I drive home. Ten minutes. We live close. Good thing. I don’t think I could handle a long drive after the news I got.
I get through the front door, place the carrier on the counter, and open the door. Malachi stretches out. He kept his booties on. He jumps down and disappears down the hallway.
My ladies come to greet me.
Stella Marie. Her long tabby coat shiny and flowing. Her bushy tail tucked carefully into that purple loopy hand warmer I’d made even before she came home from the rescue. I dug it out after I knitted Malachi’s booties. You don’t want her to brush up against you with that tail of hers. Trust me. Learned that the hard way. But this isn’t Stella’s tale of her tail. Not today. I give her a head scratch, she leans back into it, her little snaggle teeth grinning up at me. And off she goes, passing Amara.
Amara Mino. It took her a few days to get used to the bonnet. Purple. I’d only bought one color of yarn. I cut a slit for her left ear. Her right ear is the troublesome one. It already had a nick in it from a previous injury. The first time it happened with her, she’d flicked her little ear and well… But this isn’t Amara’s ear-tip tale, either. Not today.
Today is about the realization that I’ve gone and rescued a Mag-Line that infected my ladies with his magical toe ooze.
One never had to worry about this with dogs.
And now here the three cats—magically infected ones at that—sit, waiting patiently in their purple knitted ensembles for wet tuna food from the can. Booties on my little man. Tail scarf and bonnet on my ladies.
Maybe this is normal. I take the card Zara gave me and examine it. I mean, support groups and everything. And we’re not even near a big city. No one told me raising cats could come with this risk. I thought the furniture scratching and the midnight prowling and the litter box issues would be handful enough. Maybe this is the new cat-owner normal. Maybe not.
But what do I know? I’m a dog person.
