If you’ve ever had a baby–I’m referring to the human kind–then you’ll understand what I’m about to say here. Babies have a limited ability to communicate. It boils down to quiet or crying. But parents learn to discern subtle differences in the sound of crying. Crying means, I’m hungry, wet, tired, hurt, bored or mad, and parents can tell the difference.
The same thing is true of cats. Despite the common belief that “Meow” is the sum total of cat language, cats have as much of an ability to communicate as human babies do. Differences in volume and tone can pretty much communicate the same things: hungry, wet, tired, hurt, bored or mad.
Dogs, of course, have some ability as well, though it doesn’t require quite the same sensitivity to interpret their meaning. I have three of them, and when they’re outside, I can distinguish not only which one is barking, but what the bark means. It’s generally one of three choices: “Squirrel”. “Neighbor’s cat”, or “UPS truck”.
I love that about dogs. They’re pretty straightforward.
But cats require a greater degree of translation.
So one day about four years ago, I heard a sort of weak bleating sound from the back yard, which I instantly recognized as the voice of Stormy the girl cat. What was wrong with this picture was that I should not have been hearing any sort of noise from Stormy emanating from the outdoors. Stormy is an “indoor” cat. What had happened was that she jumped out the open bedroom window into the back yard, directly into the territory of the three-dog pack.
The dogs had a rule, which is that as long as you’re a cat and are inside the house, they were willing to live with it. But once outside, you’re fair game.
When I heard the bleat, I raced into the back yard and found a pretty horrifying sight. Cats, when attacked, turn over on their backs so they can use all four feet to defend themselves. (One of the really good reasons not to declaw cats. Not only is it cruel and painful, but you deprive them of their defenses. If you care more about your furniture than your cat, don’t get a cat.) So turning over on your back to be able to use all four feet seems like a good strategy, except for the part where it leaves your belly exposed. And dogs, being predators from way back, don’t let that opportunity pass them by.
Stormy is lying there on her back, feebly trying to fight, but her abdomen is a bloody mess. I scooped her up and raced to the vet, all the while saying Please don’t die, because if you do, I’m going to have to come home and shoot all the dogs.
Of course I wouldn’t really have done that. First of all, I don’t have a gun. Second, the dogs were just being dogs. It’s just the state I was in at the time.
When we got to the vet, Stormy was barely conscious. $700 in emergency surgery later, she still wasn’t out of the woods. Much of the damage was to the layer of fat on her abdomen. They sent her home with antibiotics, but they were pretty grim about her chances. Antibiotics only help with tissue with blood vessels. Fat has none. She could develop gangrene. If that happened, they could try to remove it, but it would be no guarantee they would get it all or that she would survive.
By some miracle she survived. Two of the attacking dogs are now dead. Their replacements and the remaining dog have adopted her as part of the pack. She’s safe now, indoors or out. And she has done the ultimate cat thing…she’s forgotten all about it.
