Pretty Darryl gets a second chance

The lifespan of an outdoor cat is usually four or five years.  Pretty Darryl is one of the tough guys, a pain in the rump that's been terrorizing me for about six and a half years.  So far, he's managed to defy the statistics, which is amazing considering how many times I've wanted to wring his neck.  Lucky for him, I've never been able to catch him. 

But there are things I dislike worse than Darryl.  Like yellow zombie toms.  A pair of them, both bigger than Darryl have been coming into my yard and fighting with him.  Last week I broke up a cat fight between an ugly yellow zombie and Darryl.  Darryl was down and I really thought the yellow cat was going to kill him.  When I went after the fighting cats, they stopped fighting and both ran off.

But Darryl must have been wounded.  I'd been watching him for a week and something wasn't right.  Every once in a while, when I stepped out, instead of running, he would just stare at me.  I had an uneasy feeling he was asking for help. And then yesterday, when I tried to chase him off, he just crouched and didn't run.  That spoiled the fun and I didn't have the heart to chase him.

This morning, I looked out the kitchen window and saw him crouching on the porch.  It was now obvious what his problem was.  The side of his neck had ballooned out to the size of a large grapefruit.  Even though he wasn't exactly a friend of mine, I couldn't leave him like that.  Since Darryl was extremely unfriendly, to get him help, I had to trap him.  I fed the lady ferals and then took the food away.  My husband and I set the trap up on my porch.  Twice I had to chase nosy Ginger and Peggy away from the trap.  But Darryl was hungry and it didn't take long.  Within a half hour, Darryl was caught.  I called the emergency animal hospital, made arrangements, and we drove Darryl to the doctors.

And that is when we landed in the twilight zone.  Although there were no other patients, we spent about two hours waiting.  First we had to wait while they worked out an estimate for Darryl's treatment.  Their estimate was $550.  I asked them to take the pointless $181 HIV test off and treat the immediate problem.  If Darryl had HIV, there was nothing that could be done about it.  They agreed.  I signed more papers and then the staff disappeared again.  After about forty five minutes they came out and said they had been discussing Darryl with the town animal control officer.  Apparently the state had new laws about wounded ferals.  Darryl would have to be destroyed or quarantined for sixty days.  I was thunderstruck.  I asked if they were denying him treatment.  They said no and disappeared again.  Then the vet came back.  He said that they could treat Darryl.  But because it was Saturday, the animal control officer said I had to quarantine Darryl for two days, and then after they discussed things with the state, they would be in touch.  By now I was very annoyed and told the vet that animal control could go to hell. Years ago I had asked them for help or advice in dealing with the ferals.  They had refused.  Since then, I had been taking care of things myself.  And now that the worst of it was over, the town was stepping in and telling me what to do. 

  I asked the vet if Darryl looked rabid
 He said, "No, not really.  But you still have to keep him away from any other animals for sixty days." 

This was impossible.  I have animals in the house and I have animals outside.  But I told him to treat the cat and I would figure something out. 

So after two hours of waiting, they took Darryl away to be treated.  A little while later, one of the assistants came out and began to fill us in on the progress.  She said they had to give Darryl enough drugs to knock a dog out because he wouldn't go under.  And that when they lanced the swelling, they had never seen anything like it.  It was so bad, she was amazed his fever wasn't worse.  The bill was $450, so I paid with a credit card.  Then they brought out a trap full of wild eyed, gore covered cat.  I expressed surprise that the cat was awake.  They said they had administered a drug to reverse the anesthesia.  I also made a comment about the cat being covered with gore. They said they had cleaned him up but the wound was still gushing.  The whole treatment about a half hour.  Before we left, the staff warned us to keep the cat quarantined and away from all other animals.  "And by the way, don't let him bite you."  Right.

While waiting, I had decided how to quarantine Darryl.  Since we had brought the injured feral to the vet and paid for it, if the town wanted the cat quarantined, they were going to quarantine him. From past experience, I knew that the only ones that ever seemed able to find the animal control officer were the police.  So I brought Darryl to the police station and went in.  There were two women sitting in an office behind bullet proof glass.  One of the women asked me who I was, where I lived and what I wanted.  I explained.  She told me to go sit in the waiting room and someone would come out to talk to me.  After a few minutes, one of the women sitting in the office came out and asked if we had the cat with us.  The animal control officer!  She took the trap full of Darryl and I handed her all the paperwork from the vet.  She said she'd return the trap in a couple days.  And then she asked if I would let Darryl come back when he was ready.  I said yes.  She said it was also possible would Darryl return neutered. 

I can't wait to get that trap back.  Two mean yellow cats will be leaving.  And they won't be coming back.