Sparky Gets Spayed

Disclaimer: if you think that reading about getting a cat spayed in a semi-sketchy way – I’M IN AFRICA, PEOPLE! – is going to send you running, screaming “Cruelty to animals! Abuse of pets! Horrible, horrible human being!” then please don’t continue.

This entry is a bit overdue – Sparky was spayed on the 7^th of February. On the other hand, I’ve gotten a lot of flack about posting too many entries related to cats, so I suppose the space is good.

So. Sparky (a.k.a. Melissa) the cat has had three litters while I’ve been in Botswana, and lord knows how many before then. I decided that after this most recent litter, it was high time to get her fixed. No more babies. I waited until I was sure she had stopped lactating, and then sorted out a date with Dr. C, the new vet for Agriculture and Animal Production in Ghanzi. He is Zimbabwean, and will provide private veterinary services on the weekends for a little extra cash. I’ve actually consulted with Dr. C in his official capacity, when asking about the status of the Ghanzi/Ngamiland fence which forms the top border of the Huiku property – he is a huge man, both tall and fat, and has a face that says, “I am in control.” He doesn’t look worried, he doesn’t look inquisitive. He looks bored, and he looks like the boss.

I called him to set up the appointment. We agreed on Saturday morning at 10 a.m., and I arranged to use a Komku car for the weekend so that I could transport Sparky back and forth. (I cannot even imagine the nightmare that would be trying to hitch-hike with an angry cat.)

On Saturday morning, my boss, CC, pulled up at my house with the car. I asked him to wait for a moment and help me get Sparky into the car – I’d taped up a cardboard box, cut a couple of small holes for airflow, and with CC’s help managed to stuff her in the box and tape it shut. I put Sparky in the backseat of the car and left her with CC watching over her while I went back to my house to grab my bag. While I was in the house, I suddenly heard a frantic shout – “JENN! JENN! JENN!” I dashed out and saw CC helplessly pointing at Sparky, who was streaking away from the car and into the bushes, as though someone had set her tail on fire.

the box.

Not good. There was no chance of catching her in the bushes, so I went over to see what had happened: she had put her paw into one of the airholes and literally torn her way out of the cardboard box, making a slightly larger hole and then desperately forcing her whole body through it. It wasn’t a very large hole. CC sheepishly admitted that she got stuck halfway through, but he was afraid of being bitten, so he didn’t stop her from escaping.

Sparky was obviously terrified. I spent an hour trying to catch her again, but in the end I had to give up and call Dr. C to explain what had happened. We rescheduled for Sunday at 10.

I spent the afternoon at the Gat with some friends, and then went back home to wait for Sparky. Sure enough, around 9 p.m. she crept back into the house looking for food, and I promptly shut all of the doors and windows to make sure she would still be there in the morning. I succeeded in that, but failed to get any sleep, as the now-paranoid Sparky spent all night meowing as loudly and piteously as she could in an effort to get out. At one point she managed to leap up and cram herself between the burglar bars and the screen in a frantic attempt to escape. She clawed at every window-handle and sat staring at the door and meowing incessantly. All night long. Her kittens picked up on her desperation and started to meow as well, following her around the house as she tried to find an exit.

Sorry, Sparky.

The next morning, I called M to help me out, and stuffed Sparky into a duffel bag. This sounds cruel, but I couldn’t risk another cardboard box disaster, and the duffel bag was pretty stiff, holding a nice boxy shape for her to sit in. It was about the same size as a normal cat-carry cage. I drove, and M sat in the back seat with Sparky. With the furious Sparky packed inside, the duffel bag looked like a mad amoeba - a demon-possessed, amorphous khaki object which thrashed and bulged as Sparky dug her claws in, trying to tear the bag apart, and then threw her whole weight against it trying to force her way through. At one point she managed to get a paw into the gap between the zippers and had her head all the way out before M realized what was happening and quickly stuffed her back in. M held the zippers closed for the rest of the trip.

We arrived at the “vet’s office,” i.e. Dr. C’s house, with his three curious-looking daughters watching TV in their pyjamas. I held out the duffel bag, and he said, “OK, well, let’s get a look at her.”

I pulled out Sparky, who was thrashing like a wild thing (which she is) and seemed to be overheated from her half-hour in the duffel bag. Feeling terrible, I grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and held her down on a little wooden table while Dr. C jabbed a long needle full of general anaesthetic into her thigh. “Cats have very strong skins,” he commented as he plunged the needle into her. “Need to use a sharp needle!” Strangely, Sparky didn’t jerk away while he put the needle in, but only when he’d injected the full dose. Then she convulsed so violently that she almost got out of my grip, but half a second later she was passing out. Dr. C instructed us to come back in just over an hour.

“I’d… kind of like to watch,” I said tentatively. I was curious.

“Well, I don’t like an audience,” he said, raising his eyebrows. M and I left, got some lunch and went to the china shop, where I bought a green dress.

Then we went back. Dr. C, as promised, was finished with the surgery – Sparky was lying on a towel on the table, with a four-inch slit in her left side that was stitched up with blue thread. The fur had been shaved off and her skin was light grey. She was completely limp but her eyes were half-open, the pupils dilated completely. Her mouth was slightly open and she was breathing slowly and shallowly. The sight affected me far more than I thought it would – she looked completely fucked-up, as though she could die at any moment. Then Dr. C dropped his bomb:

“She was pregnant, you know.”

“WHAT?”

“There were four kittens inside. I took them out.” He shrugged, dispassionately.

I was stunned. “How big?”

He made a shape about the size of an almond with his finger and thumb. “Maybe three weeks.”

I didn’t know what else to say. Not only had I taken away Sparky’s reproductive rights, I’d unwittingly aborted four kittens! On the other hand, I’d prevented the birth of potentially dozens of kittens that would find, at worst, an early death – at best, a short life on the farm, chasing mice and being fed scraps. Either way, those kittens would dilute the gene pool of the local wild cats, and kill hundreds of native birds, lizards, and rodents.

Anyhow, the decision had already been made. “Shall I put her back in the duffel bag?” I asked, dreading disturbing her with the fresh gash from the surgery staring me in the face.

gross!

“Sure,” said Dr. C. Without further ado, he grabbed Sparky’s front paws in one hand, her back paws in the other, and put her back into the bag. She was scarily limp, a nerveless bag of skin with an assortment of liquids and solids bundled inside. I suppose she couldn’t feel anything anyways, and there really was no other way to get her back in… But all I could imagine was the hideous squash of tissues moving and rearranging around her new lack-of-reproductive-organs. Yikes.

“She’ll come awake later today,” said Dr. C. “Just keep a cloth over her face – the anaesthetic will make her eyes stay open, and if you don’t keep a cloth over them her eyes will dry out.”

“OK,” I said. “Thank you.” I paid, and M and I drove back to D’Kar.

At home, Sparky was in bad shape. She was unconscious for about an hour, but then she started to move – first just twitching, her limbs straightening out convulsively, rolling around in the duffel bag (I’d left her in there, to reduce movement and to keep the light/air away from her eyes) – but soon enough she regained consciousness and tried to get out of the bag. I was doing something in the kitchen and by the time I heard her struggling, she’d lurched halfway out of the bag and was staring crazily around the room. Her pupils were still fully dilated and she didn’t have full control of her body – she wormed her way out of the bag and staggered about a foot across the floor before falling over. Not a controlled collapse, but a complete wipe-out. You could hear her skull hitting the linoleum with a sharp "clunk." It was horrible. I tried to get her to return to the duffel bag – then to lie still on the floor – but Sparky is mostly a feral cat, and being enclosed was absolutely driving her crazy, even in that drugged-out state. Her deepest instincts were clearly telling her, “You are not okay. Something about this is not okay. You need to get somewhere safe, somewhere outside, somewhere in the bush.”

Over the course of a few hours, she staggered around the house in confusion and disoriented distress, frequently falling. She wouldn’t drink any water, but she did have a bit of food – which she promptly threw up. After awhile she became aware enough to locate the door, and scratched feebly at it, meowing. I wanted to keep her inside where I could monitor her and feed her, but she was clearly distressed, so I let her out.

She promptly clawed her way across the lawn, drunkenly, like a sailor on solid land for the first time in a decade, and sat under the pointsettia bushes. She stayed there for the next 24 hours, as I fussed around anxiously, bringing her tins of tuna and holding off her kittens (who were still trying to nurse, crazy animals.)

After that she resumed her normal schedule, more or less. About a week after the surgery, I randomly ran into Dr. C at the pharmacy, and he said in a rather offhand manner, “Oh, in a few days you should just take the stitches out. You know, when it looks healed.”

What?! I just nodded, and a few days later, dutifully removed the stitches. None of this self-dissolving shit for Botswana! I held Sparky down with one hand, under my desk lamp, and with the other hand I picked, dug, and snipped the stitches out with a pair of nail clippers and some tweezers. Sparky was remarkably calm, though I imagine it hurt her. When I released her, she hopped down, gave me a dirty look, and went to have a bit more supper.

Now she’s back to normal – happy, healthy, and free from the burden of birthing and raising up-to-three-litters-per-year.