Escape Artist

By: Krista Morrow

Washington State University, Class of 2013

Being accepted to veterinary school is a big deal. When I found out I got in, I was bursting with pride, but attempted to remain decently humble at the same time. I was content to let others do the bragging for me. The veterinarians I worked for at the time were more than happy to do so, and often would call me into exam rooms on odd cases. They would let me do an exam myself, informing their clients that I had been accepted into veterinary school, and that they wanted me to see everything I could before I left. What often followed was an exclamation from the client of “That is wonderful! You must be very smart!” It was a bit embarrassing, but I won’t say I didn’t enjoy it.

Maybe I was enjoying it a bit too much, because someone apparently decided I needed my ego brought down to a normal level. I had just left the exam room where I had been called in to see a strange skin condition on a very well-behaved Siamese kitty. My veterinarian had mentioned my acceptance, and the clients (who had never been in to our clinic before) said something along the lines of “Congratulations!! You handle our kitty so well, I’m sure you will make a wonderful veterinarian someday!”

I then left the room to check on a feral kitty that had been neutered at our clinic that morning. Unfortunately, he had made a mess of his crate and there was splattering of feces all over the walls, towel, and kitty. He peered at me with bleary eyes and had quite the head bob going on, so I determined that this kitty was still pretty out of it. The least I could do was grab the towel and exchange it for a clean one.

Bleary eyed or not, he was still quicker-thinking than me. I pulled out the splattered towel and was placing in a clean one when the kitty darted for the door. Not one to confront a big orange tomcat when coming at one’s face, I did the only thing I could; move!

My only saving grace was that I had closed the door of the surgery room where his crate was being kept, and he didn’t have far to go. Unfortunately, I was IN the surgery room. The tomcat then turned into a popcorn kitty; bouncing up and down with super-feline strength as he struggled to find a window or hole to get through. He didn’t bother with discretion as he served to knock everything off the shelves in the surgery room-all types of suture material, surgery instruments, Carbolime bags, the radio, IV lines, the pulse oximeter. I paled as I imagined the reactions of everyone outside the room to the loud racket going on in the back. I prayed that he wouldn’t tip over the oxygen tank, and thought maybe soon that he would calm down, and then I could throw a towel over him, or guide him to the cage.

The door of the surgery room cracked open and my veterinarian peered through the opening. I turned to try and slam it shut, but the kitty was too quick again. At this point, all I have to say is that I am grateful for a small clinic and a corner in which this little kitty ran straight towards and saw fit to hide.  We finally secured him in a net and placed him back in his cage, but not before passing by an exam room with the bewildered clients staring through the crack in the door.

Capture a success, I finally started breathing again. My veterinarian, with a huge smirk on her face, asked me if it was okay for her to return to the exam room and finish up with the new clients (who had perhaps changed their minds about my cat-handling skills).

I earned a little more respect for feral cats that day, and I’m sorry to say that after all that the poor feral kitty had to spend the rest of the day without a fresh towel. After all, I wasn’t going to throw in a new one.