Boyd

 

    Boyd was supposed to be a barn cat, or at least and indoor/outdoor cat.  That was my plan.  Life had other ideas.

    I had stopped by the veterinarian's that day, over 15 years ago, probably to pick up some medication for a horse or my dog.  On the counter was a poster of a large grey tabby.  Suddenly I teared up.  "Neffy has been gone for six months," I explained.  The staff all knew my beloved old tortoiseshell cat.  She had been our working barn cat, as well as my evening lap companion for over 14 years, but her health had been failing when she disappeared.  Neffy was independent, opinionated, and a superb hunter of rodents in the barn.  She was also my buddy.  I missed her.  Her absence left a hole in my being.     

    The receptionist glanced at the photo.  "He's looking for a home.  We put him in a local rescue last night.  He was an outdoor cat, and the family brought him in with his sick sister to be put down.  We kept him because there is nothing wrong with him except he needed his shots, and to be treated for fleas.  We did all that.  He's only a couple of years old.  He's pretty big.  Oh, and he's a Manx."  Then she explained when she saw my slightly puzzled expression, "He doesn't have a tail - only the tiniest stub."

    Something felt right about this cat.  "I'll take him," I said impulsively, but firmly.

    We made arrangements for me to come back in a few hours with a cat carrier.  Over the lunch period, the staff would transport him to their office from the rescue home.

    I walked in, and the receptionist put a bewildered big tabby in my arms.  He allowed me to stroke him as he nervously shed hair all over my clothes.  "What's his name?"

    His last owners didn't give him one.  They called him "boy."

    When I brought the cat home, it was my husband, Steve, who decided we wouldn't confuse the new pet by radically changing his non-name.  We would call him Boyd.  He answered to it immediately in a shy, confused way.

    As I have down with most of my new cats and kittens, I left him in the bathroom for a few days, with a litter box, and I brought him out in the evenings to sit with me as we watched TV.  He quickly adjusted to the routine in a tentative, timid manner.  Boyd never ventured far from my side.  I soon released him from the confines of the bathroom, and his litter box took its place in the laundry room with Boyd enjoying the run of the house.  He even got along with Snickerdoodle, the dog.

    There were a couple of mishaps.  He had accidents with bowel movements, and the vet explained that was not uncommon for Manx cats.  A careful diet took care of the problem most of the time.  Boyd also thought he could scratch his claws on Steve's recliner.  He accepted that as a no-no when I dusted the two cat trees with catnip.  At one point he believed he might stalk my pet budgies, but when the plexiglass side fell on him, he decided they didn't really exist, and he ignored the flight cage.

    So, living in the house was going well for Boyd.

    It was the outside that bothered him  Boyd wasn't bold like Neffy.  He always moved cautiously, especially when he was beyond the walls of the house.  I would bring him out with me, and he would sit by the door or slink under bushes.  I tried to explain to him that living on a horse farm meant he had a job.  Boyd was never convinced.

    Eventually, he did manage to establish himself as a hunter in the barn, but I learned to leave my bedroom window open.  The leap to the sill was about four feet.  He made it every night, returning to the house in the wee hour of the morning.

    It might have gone like that for more years, except construction began by us.  What had been a dairy farm with one old home, became a development with no cows and 65 new homes.  Our dead end street became a thoroughfare.

    Boyd had no traffic sense.  I watched him amble across the road, oblivious to the cars, and I decided I didn't need an outdoor cat.  The neighbors had cats.  They could maintain the rodent population in my barn.  Besides, I had always worried about the bird population.  Boyd could live in the house.

    He didn't seem to mind at all.  In fact, I think he was relieved.  Sometimes he sat on the bedroom window sill and gazed outside, but usually he was content to laze around the house.  He played with his toys, especially his purple ball that I had crocheted for him.

    Years passed, with Boyd my constant inside companion.  He would press against my thigh, or stretch his upper body across my lap because he was too big to lay his whole body on me.  He seemed to enjoy the company of Snickerdoodle, too.

    If I left for any length of time he was stressed.  I could tell.  He would shed.  Boyd, in many respects, was more like a dog than a cat.  He didn't pretend to be independent.  He always wanted to be near me.  He had beds in every room of the house, some of them meant for the dog.

    As he aged, Boyd put on more weight, and he got diabetes. I had to learn to adjust his diet, and to give him shots.  He was an ideal patient, and he even lost enough weight that I didn't have to continue poking him.  He enjoyed his wet, fish Friskies.

     The vet warned me Boyd's kidneys were failing him.  I was cleaning his litter box often, at least twice daily, but he never had an accident.

    Then he wasn't interested in his food, or his toys, although he drank a lot of water.  He hardly lifted his head as I stroked him.  We all knew our time together was ending.

    My beloved daughter-in-law is a veterinarian's technician.  She was with me as I held Boyd to cross the rainbow bridge.

    For years my little dog looked for his friend, quietly wandering from room to room, inspecting all of Boyd's resting places.

    I often dream of Boyd.   He haunts me.  My journal is full of stories about him, and I don't have a cat any longer.  Perfection can't be replaced.

    Somewhere in my house is a purple crochet ball.  Boyd hid it before he left, and I have never found it.  I wonder....  

     

Call the doctor

       I have liked every veterinarian I have met.  Good thing.  I need them for my cats and dogs and birds, and certainly for my horses.

     When Friendly Horse Acres began with only two horses I knew that the veterinarian for my cats and dogs also treated large animals.  Fifty years ago, that was common.  Veterinarians did not specialize in species, but they certainly had favorites and strengths depending on the type of animal.  Our veterinarian (I will call him Doctor J to give him some anonymity) was a crusty older man known for his short fuse and biting tongue.  He, also, was an excellent veterinarian with a devoted staff.  His office workers assured me that when it came to large animals, his personality brightened.  He delighted in horses, and he was our first vet when we acquired young Splash and wonderful Jodee.  Indeed, when he inspected and helped us with our equine purchases, he was a different man; affable and joking.  I was sorry when he retired, passing on his practice to a veterinarian who only accepted dogs and cats and birds as his patients.

    By that time, we had established ourselves in the horse community, and we found Doctor S, who only treated horses.  He was a fantastic vet, and much in demand in our area.  

    In fact, he was so much in demand that on one memorable occasion, after we had acquired our first Miniature Horses and begun breeding, he was not available.  We had a pregnant mare in labor, and it wasn't going well.  The hour was late.  I don't remember where I got the number for the back-up vet (probably Doctor S).  I do remember that she lived a distance away, but she promised she would get to us as soon as she could.  She was not fooling.  Probably she broke every speed limit between her home and our farm because she was at our door in record time.  Good thing it was late in the evening, and the traffic was light, especially 40 years ago.  She worked for hours, and as she warned me, "I can save the mare, but not the foal."  So it happened.  The foal had a foot hooked over our mare's pelvis, and by the time the vet arrived he was gone.  Our mare went into shock, but Peach (her name,) survived, and would have other foals, and become a confident riding and driving pony.  I remember telling our elementary-aged son, he wouldn't go to school the next day.  He had had a lesson in life.  I don't recall using that vet again (her normal practice was farther north than our farm,) but I will always remember her.

    When we moved out of King County into Pierce County we lost Doctor S.  He wouldn't cross the bridge into the next county.

    Quickly, we found a new veterinarian less than a mile from our house.  Doctor R was like Doctor J in that his practice included all animals.  He was everything we wanted in a veterinarian, and we treasured him for years.  He tried to be available for us, and I realize now he gave up a lot of his lunch hours to get to us when we needed him.

    Occasionally, Doctor R would have an assistant veterinarian.  Late one afternoon one of our treasured Miniature mares, Abby, went into labor.  All went well.  The colt was contentedly nursing, and I had carefully laid out the intact placenta for inspection.  Although it was a few minutes past closing time at Doctor R's clinic, I called expecting to leave a message.  The doctor who answered was the current veterinary assistant.  I don't remember her name.  She didn't stay long with the practice, but I do recall her weary voice.  "I'm coming, " she assured me.  When she arrived, she inspected the new baby, pronouncing him perfect, and she praised Abby for a splendid job.  The she confessed to me, "I've had a horrible day.  I wanted to end with a pleasant appointment.  Thank you."  She left with a smile.

    I had learned my lesson about only having one veterinarian to call.  We found Doctor C.   Doctor C's practice only included horses, and he was especially noted for working on Thoroughbreds.  However, we were accepted as clients.  Good thing, too.  Doctor R retired, and sold his practice to a small animal vet. (She still sees our dog.) We leaned heavily on Doctor C.  I found it interesting that I enjoyed the man, but many people confided they found him difficult to like.  I suppose, in many respects, he was like Doctor J.  Crusty.  Blunt.  Doctor C did not curtail his words.  I liked and appreciated him - enormously.

    Yet he, too, retired. 

    For a brief time I was without veterinarian care for my horses.  I had a list of other vets that Doctor C had shared as he faded from the veterinarian scene, but none of them were willing to take us on as regular clients.

    Then I remembered a young veterinarian who had come to our farm a couple of times in an emergency, over the years.  He had a traveling van.  He, along with his future wife, was building a practice.  In fact, his practice must be flourishing because he was seldom available, but I still had his number.

    When I called Doctor D, the call connected.  I was surprised to find I had called an association of veterinarians.  I was delighted to find they were accepting clients, and I was within their practice's accepted geographic area.  Yes, I could see Doctor D, but would I be willing to see any other of their veterinarians who could be available more quickly?   I would.

    I now longer have to worry about getting help for my horses.  I've got a handful of veterinarians on speed dial, including Doctor D.  As I've pointed out, I've never met a veterinarian I didn't like.  Northwest Equine Veterinary Associates is not an exception.  I like them all.  

    It is a relief to know that I can always call the doctor to get help for my equines.

                                                      sketch by Angie Blanchard