The Sprout Report

Picture, if you will, me sitting on my guest bathroom floor. I’m tucked on one of my blue rugs, cat on my left – under the toilet, peering out suspiciously – dog on my right, pushing forward from the hallway to get that cat. I’m soothing Chienne – speaking softly and gently, scratching her favorite spot and watching her wag her tail.

Sprout returned her stare – neither paid me a bit of attention. So I reached a hand toward the pretty cat and he came closer to let me pet him. My soothing attention was working – I still felt badly for shouting at them the last time when Sprout darted away, Chienne gave chase and everything ended with a hiss and yelp. Irritating, that. Poorly handled. I was doing better this time, I decided with no small amount of pride.

Sprout allowed Chienne to touch his nose with hers, only drawing back with displeasure when she dared lick him. But we tried – over and over – I was trying to located my latent patient nature. Soothing and calm, I told myself. Gentle and easy. My legs are falling asleep, but that’s OK. They’re getting used to each other. Lovely.

It all ended - about 10 minutes later - with noises of started surprise. Chienne lunged. Sprout screeched and swatted her. She yelped and I screamed simultaneously. At which point, I shoved her from the bathroom, wrapped Sprout in a towel and placed him back in his room. Closed the door. And sighed.

“I saw your notice.” Said a man’s voice in a deep drawl the night before when I answered the phone. “That you found a cat?”

“Oh. Yes, I did.” I replied, trying to quickly determine how I felt about losing Sprout. He still doesn’t feel like mine, actually. And introducing him to Chienne is obviously going less than swimmingly. “Are you missing a cat?”

“My good friend is.”

And we both waited for a moment – me thinking about whether I would offer all my cat accessories before returning the little guy, he probably waiting for me to say something.

“What color is your missing cat?” I asked, reading to interrogate him on the color of flea collar as well.

“Black and white striped.” He answered, and I frowned. I’ve never seen a black and white striped cat. Like a zebra? Aren’t they usually black or white spots on the contrasting color of fur?

“Well, mine is gray with black stripes. Very small.”

“Oh.” He said, sounding a bit disappointed, but certainly not broken hearted.

“Was yours a male or female?” I asked, not wanting to steal someone’s cat if her friend couldn’t distinguish white from gray.

“Female.” He said, and I sighed.

“Mine is a male.” I told him. “I hope you find the missing cat though. Thanks for calling.”

And we said good-bye and I scratched Chienne’s head as she settled her giant body in my lap. “I think we have a cat, sweetheart.”

In fact, there is a boy in my guest room. He just happens to be 5.1 pounds of feline. While Chienne and I continue to look at each post we pass on our walks, hoping to see a sign seeking the return of a small striped cat with a big striped collar, I’ve received no valid calls to claim him.

I woke up yesterday morning, walked the dog, then returned home to shower and dress so Sprout could visit the vet. I recently took Chienne to the small office in my little town and was surprised by how delightful they were. Quick, matter of fact, and excessively kind to my happy little dog. The sore spot on her side is healing nicely and the shot has helped tremendously with her allergies. God bless them.

After frowning over my lack of anything resembling a carrier – Chienne is a good little traveler and sits proudly in the front or sleeps in the back – I wrapped Sprout in his favorite flowered blanket and set him in the car. The garage door startled him and he darted behind the passenger seat where he meowed demandingly until we arrived at the vet.

I scooped him up, wrapped him snugly in the blanket so he couldn’t escape and went in the office. I told the receptionist my name and confirmed our 8:30 appointment time.

“For my cat. Well, not my cat. This cat. I found him. In the flower bed.” And I rubbed the side of my index finger across his tiny head. He must have an itty bitty brain, I mused. Then decided he was smart enough to select the house of a sucker. Choose the flower bed that was well tended, with a profusion of what could be weeds with pretty flowers. Meowed at the person who would respond with sympathy and worry, taking him in until his family could be found.

“Smart Sprout.” I praised, then sat on the wooden bench while the receptionist checked us in.

“Can I weigh you?” She asked him moments later, coming over and peering into his little face as I cradled his body wrapped in pastel blanket.

“It’s very nice.” I said. And shrugged when she asked if it was male or female. She took him, told me he was a boy (it is an undignified and intrusive process, poor little guy. I politely looked away.), then settled him on the same scale where Chienne had perched the week before. He was about 10% of the dog’s weight, and looked relieved to be held again. We entered an exam room, and I left his blanket bunched around his feet while I petted him. I don’t think he’s a lap cat. He wants my attention, but would rather be firmly on his pretty black paws while receiving it. So he stayed on his blanket, purring and looking around.

The tech entered, asked a couple questions and was busy writing things down.

“So,” I summarized, “just do whatever you need to do to make sure he’s OK. I’m looking for his family, so I might not have him for very long.

“What?” I asked, when her pen stilled and she gave me a look. “You don’t think I’ll find his family?”

She was saved from having to answer when the vet came in. He picked Sprout up and said they’d do tests for AIDS and leukemia. Then the vet and cat exited, leaving me with the tech.

“What if he’s positive?” I asked, trying not to care too much.

“The doctor will talk to you.” She said. “And you can decide what to do.”

I frowned, deciding to check my voice mail as I sat alone in the room after she left too, nodding in response to the random questions people popped in to ask. They were giving him Revolution for fleas, mites and worms, OK? Sure.

Would I like to vaccinate for rabies? After making sure it wouldn’t hurt him if he’d already had the appropriate shots (because who wouldn’t vaccinate for rabies?), I nodded. And upper respiratory? If he needs it, that’s fine.

They were cleaning his ears. I offered my thanks. His age was somewhere between 4 and 5 months. He still had his baby teeth. Lovely.

Hadn’t been fixed. Could I schedule that today? The tech had returned with little Sprout at this point, and he took a moment before purring in response to my petting his head.

“Sure.” She said as the doctor was busy writing notes in the back. I could see him through the open door.

“I might have to cancel.” I told her. “If his family finds him.” Frowning over twin expressions of amusement, I asked if I could remove the flea collar.

“The only way a flea collar is effective is if you can get it tight enough to actually crush a flea.” The vet noted, returning to his notes. “You can take it off if you want.”

“Did you put it on?” The tech asked, probably wondering if I was offended. I shook my head.

“His family gave it to him. I’m sure they’re looking for him. Because he does have a family.”

She nodded kindly and I heard the doctor stifle a laugh. I turned to him with raised eyebrows and smiled after he said, “Of course he has a family.” He stepped inside and scratched under Sprout’s chin. “I’m looking at her.” And with a wink at me, he left the room again.

“I think you’re my cat now.” I told Sprout. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.” So I left with samples of cat food, brochures, a vaccination record. They bundled him up in a cardboard carrier. I promptly opened it in response to his cries once we were in the car.

He seems good. He flattens his ears against his head and displays his claws when I clean his ears. They are disgusting with the ickiness, but Unnamed Friend says the mites will stay away if I keep them clean. He immediately rises to greet me when I enter his room. I spill litter on the floor when cleaning because he wants so much attention. The sore behind his ear was due to scratching at the mites. It’s healing nicely. He has a bit of white on his chin, but nowhere else. He only meows when demanding something – in the car, out in the hallway, when I leave his room with dirty litter before petting him an appropriate amount. His ears have black tips. His eyes are quite pretty. We’re getting to know each other.

He likes me, I think. About the dog? That remains to be seen.