Last weekend, Carlotta, a long-haired Siamese, was pulled from the local euthanasia room with a mangled leg that had been tangled in barbed wire and badly injured in her panic to get free. By Monday, she was at our go to vet, confirming what our nose already told us—the leg was beyond saving. Our squad reported that Carlotta was spicy on intake, but I have some experience with pissed off women on Valentine’s Day, and after a few minutes on the vet table I had her leaning into a head scratch, irritated but willing to keep an openmind about our relationship. A shot of antibiotic, fluffy towel and a few kind words and Carlotta was on schedule for treatment first thing in the morning.
Late yesterday, Cori Tee circulated a text letting the crew know my gender ID skills were as sharp as ever, and Carlotta, now Karl, came through surgery fine. In my defense, the vet reported Karl had “really tiny testicles” and his long hair and attitude at intake didn’t allow for easy inspection. And for sure, I handled him better than Wilbur, an old Siamese brute with a facial tumor, rotten teeth and a worse attitude pulled from the engine of a Rav4 by Sarah Hueck. I geared up for that wildling like I was heading into the burning reactor at Chernobyl and braced myself for the worst. Mama Su Kim took one look at my get up—“Oh…my…god…really?”—brushed me aside, scruffed Willy barehanded and plopped him in the carrier like she was serving a hot burrito. Whatever, show off…
I haven’t seen the bill for these furry miscreants but I’m sure it’s sobering, and both of these fixer-uppers have extensive rehab and socialization ahead. If you can find room in your latte budget, click the donate button, and if you want to flex your fostering skills and be part of a cool turnaround, let us know! Karl and Wilbur.
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