A Vampire Bit Dipstick

My mother always loved cats and always had cats. Dipstick  was her last cat, named by Lily after one of the dogs on "102 Dalmations" -- and the name fits in the nicest interpretation of the name because he's a black and white cat with a black tail like a dipstick. Dipstick gave Mama a lot of pleasure, following her wherever she went and sitting with her wherever she sat. He was a good companion for her Alzheimer's.  She couldn't remember where he came from, but she liked him and he was wonderfully loyal to her. But there were other issues, such as my father not taking care of the litter box and now Dipstick is un-litter-box-trained.

Part of the struggle of dealing with aging parents is what to do with their pets. My brother took their eager little dog, Eight, who was a lively mixed breed that looked like a miniature black lab. Eight went with my father everywhere and the car reeked of dog. My brother lives in the country and Eight was one of his dog's puppies, so my brother took him in. Eight went everywhere with my brother, until it got too hot and my brother made him stay at home. Then last month my brother had his windows rolled down when the car was parked in his yard and didn't know that Eight had jumped into the back seat of his truck. He still didn't know when he drove off and went somewhere for about three hours, rolling up the windows and locking the doors. It was terribly hot. He found my parents' cute, lively little dog, Eight, dead from the heat in the backseat. It would break my mother's heart, if she knew (or even could remember who Eight was....)

I took in Dipstick, my mother's cat. I already have two cats and Paul was not at all happy about adding Dipstick. There's really no place for him (since he can't be trusted about the litterbox), so we made him a barn cat. That's not working out too well. He sprays the tack room, or at least his presence causes a feral tom cat to come spray the tack room. He's afraid of the dog, even though the dog is a sissy, so Dipstick doesn't venture far from the barn. He doesn't get enough attention, but we do our best for him.

Today when I went to feed the horses and Dipstick, I was met with a shocking sight. There was a puncture wound in the white fur of Dipstick's neck, and bright red blood was running out. It looked like a vampire bit him.

It felt so bad to see him. My grief far exceeded his wounds, and I know that my tears and grief aren't for him, but for Mama. My sweet Mama, her sweet cat. Why?

Right now he's at the vet's getting tubes put in and the wound flushed. And I'm sitting here wondering what better thing I can do for Dipstick without upsetting my marriage.

If I ever end up living alone, you'll read about me in the paper. I'll be the one with the 60 cats. And yes, I am allergic to them.

It's not realistic to bring Dipstick inside. He sprays. That simply won't do. I can't figure out how to keep him safe from the feral tom cat (or the foxes or anything else) down at the barn without keeping him locked in the tack room, which is no kind of life.

It's hard to take care of aging parents. And sometimes, like today, that anxiety plays out when you see your mother's cat bleeding and you somehow feel responsible -- yet know you did the best you could.

Here's a photo of Dipstick that Lily took. His mouth is open because his mouth is always open. He talks continually. I suspect it's a complaint, and I don't blame him.