Iris and Blackberry

Back to the cats and how existentialism comes to play: Iris, the spotted tabby, was born without eyes. She has rudimentary tissue which would have liked very much to become eyes, but for some unknown reason never quite finished the job (perhaps the mother was ill or given some kind of medication—the only solid documentation on the phenomena regards pregnant animals given a certain type of medication used to treat dermatophytes….or “ringworm” in layman’s terms.) Iris has eyelids, although they are about 1/3 normal size, and conjunctival tissue and tear glands, and if exposed to very bright light, she even squints. She sounds like a freak or a medical monstrosity, but actually, it’s not noticeable from a distance, and besides, the rest of her is so damned cute that it more than compensates. She has an overall appearance of being a normal feline in a perpetual state of squinting, as if she’s working very hard to “look” at something. Considering we mammals have all of our senses conveniently located on our heads, it’s really more of what’s 4/5’s there and not what isn’t. Iris turns her head in response to voices and smells; Iris runs, jumps and plays just like the other cats. Once in a blue moon she actually bumps into something. I find it amazing how "optional" vision is to an indoor pet.

Nevertheless I was worried about her Monday, being away from the only home she can “remember” and finding herself thrust into a noisy, weird-smelling situation with people who were very much not me, putting her into a plastic box and piping in the isoflurane gas. I can’t really say it’s “light’s out” because they were never “on”. Then she groggily climbed to something akin to a state of consciousness, and she doubtlessly hurt. It was insulting enough that the food dish went adios at midnight and she spent a good deal of time with a growling stomach….but this—this is really not what she’d penciled into her Dayrunner. . It was kind of hard to concentrate on my work. I found myself puzzling over the whole blindness notion—if there is no sight, is there “dark”? Or must there be light in order to know dark? I can close my eyes (but won’t do that right now) and it’ll be pretty dark all right, but I have seen, and I have a frame of reference. What must it be like to have never witnessed anything visual? Is it easier or harder on creatures who don’t have the power of abstract language to discuss what it’s like?

Ah, perhaps ignorance is bliss—except when there is no way to explain to a suffering creature that things will be okay soon. I puzzled over Iris’s rather sad state of affairs off and on throughout the day, and then finally decided to let the mystery remain what it was, and will always be. Maybe it was worse being in a strange and seemingly hostile environment without the benefit of sight to at least attempt to put things into some sort of frame of reference. One thing blind cats do not do is jump directly up, as onto counters or other high places….they don’t go anywhere they cannot feel first. I remember when I first brought her home and she took her first tentative steps on the carpet, her little legs wobbly and her tail wavering as if trying to act as a rudder. She figured things out fairly quick. It took awhile to muster up the courage to walk across the linoleum kitchen floor, because the traction was not the best. She would stand at the edge of the carpet, gingerly touching the floor beyond as if it were water and she was testing the temperature. My cats have a water fountain which they love, because the water runs through a filter and stays nice and clean, plus cats love moving water. It is probably an instinctive behavior, since stagnant water harbors bacteria and mosquitos and probably tastes like shit. The fountain does a good job of keeping the cats out of the kitchen sink, though once in a while, I still catch someone sneaking a lick or two from the faucet. In Iris’s case, the fountain was of crucial importance, because it was located next to food, and food is a very good thing.

Thus, through sound, then smell, accompanied by touch (at first she walked along the sides of the counters, almost gliding along, and as her confidence (and her body) grew and developed, soon it was just occasional whisker contact, and soon she left those “training wheels behind” and it was with great joy that I watched her as she learned how to run, how to chase (and be chased). In a short period of time, Iris was able to utilize her working senses to construct her whereabouts and had the floor plan down pat.

So I wondered, how does a creature such as Iris fare in such a strange setting? As it turned out, the point was rather moot, since she was given a mild injection of acepromazine (kitty valium) upon recovery and spent most of her visit sleeping. Maybe it was no worse for her—practically speaking, blindness meant there was one less sense to be confounded by the wrongness if it all.

Sean picked her up from the vet, along with her “sister”, Blackberry, who’d also undergone the same necessary evil experience, and Brian drove—both of them went in to the clinic to claim the girls. Sean commented in a dry yet bemused manner that the staff would probably assume that he and Brian were a gay couple picking up their “kids”. I laughed at that one, having seen it a number of times---and of course, Sean has too, since he was a veterinary assistant for nearly two years.

As the time to head home approached, I drew up two syringes with miniscule doses of butorphanol, a synthetic opiate used extensively in veterinary medicine. One thing that working in a critical care environment has taught me, and taught me well, is pain management. It is stupid to dismiss an ovariohysterectomy, which is abdominal surgery, as a “minor procedure”. I’ve been there; I had the very same surgery myself (okay, mine was a little bit more complicated, but I make my point), and it took months for the pain to subside, and to this day, almost ten years later, even though the scar is practically invisible, there are points along its 10” hipbone-to-hipbone path where the skin is almost numb, and other spots which are hypersensitive—even a slight touch is rather painful. I wonder if the nerve pathways took a crooked road and not a straight one when they reconstructed, leaving me with too many “feelies” in some areas and too few in others.

Iris and Blackberry were ambulatory by the time I arrived home, athough it was clear by observing the “sucked up” posture as they walked that they hurt. I pulled the syringes from my bag, and as Amanda kept a firm hold on their scruff, I quickly administered the medication, and within 20 minutes, they were relaxed and purring, and both decided to mosey over to the food dish to browse. Of course, one has to be mindful of the fact that since it isn’t possible to instruct a cat not to “overdo it” that analgesics should be used sparingly—a bit of tenderness or soreness has a purpose--and after the first night, they both seemed to be feeling pretty decent, so no more meds were needed.

Perhaps the most noteworthy trait about Amanda and myself is our sometimes over-developed sense of compassion. We are tickled by the cute little things that might easily slip past the attention of some—and are just as easily brought to the verge of tears when another suffers. We love our kitties (not that Sean doesn’t—he’s a soft touch as well)….and we love each other. Sometimes, as strange as it sounds, it feels as if it’s hard to tell where one of us ends and the other begins—like twins borne of different generations, or perhaps the little toy dolls which open to reveal another, strikingly similar doll, and on it goes.

Enough for tonight.