I figure it's about time to introduce some of the non-horse related things in my life that help contribute to the fun and semi feral atmosphere around here.
Meet Squeaky.
My first (and I imagine last) attempt at a foster failure.
It started when my sister-in-law called her brother, my husband, about a cat that needed a home. The cat belonged to a deaf individual and was supposed to be a trained cat in some capacity, as in, perhaps it alerted her to people at the door.
I was pretty skeptical about this, but hey, a trained cat. How can things go wrong?
The original owner sadly committed suicide. I talked the husband into being a short term foster. Husband called the sister back. Fast forward a few days, a couple of crossed wires, and here's the basis synopsis.
Despite our interest, the cat ended up at the humane society where she was spayed, dewormed, and vaccinated on the date of intake, despite having been closed in an apartment after her owner's death. The person that was supposed to hand over the cat, sprung her from the humane society, and we did get her into our possession.
The downside was that she was extremely thin (less than half of her body weight based on intake from the humane society!) and had an upper respiratory infection and ear mites. I locked her into my spare bedroom for quarantine from the original cat while we set about figuring things out.
She promptly crawled into a small space in the back of the closet, creating an hour long search. She was so ill that she did not eat or drink on her own. She ran a high fever and hardly moved from her corner in the crate we kept her in.
Good thing, I worked for a veterinarian. For weeks, it was touch and go as we pumped antibiotics and fluids into her. She still didn't eat or drink.
Finally, she turned the corner. She would crawl into our laps and purr while we did subcutaneous injections each day. We had a small celebration the first time she finally ate some wet food on her own.
Needless to say, "Squeaky" has survived. She got her name because she constantly sits and squeaks at my husband and myself.
Why? No idea. Just meows and squeaks. Over and over. Trained? Not so much.
Foster failure, yes. No regrets though, at least on my end. My husband, however, will think twice before volunteering to take a "trained cat".
Meet Squeaky.
My first (and I imagine last) attempt at a foster failure.
It started when my sister-in-law called her brother, my husband, about a cat that needed a home. The cat belonged to a deaf individual and was supposed to be a trained cat in some capacity, as in, perhaps it alerted her to people at the door.
I was pretty skeptical about this, but hey, a trained cat. How can things go wrong?
The original owner sadly committed suicide. I talked the husband into being a short term foster. Husband called the sister back. Fast forward a few days, a couple of crossed wires, and here's the basis synopsis.
Despite our interest, the cat ended up at the humane society where she was spayed, dewormed, and vaccinated on the date of intake, despite having been closed in an apartment after her owner's death. The person that was supposed to hand over the cat, sprung her from the humane society, and we did get her into our possession.
The downside was that she was extremely thin (less than half of her body weight based on intake from the humane society!) and had an upper respiratory infection and ear mites. I locked her into my spare bedroom for quarantine from the original cat while we set about figuring things out.
She promptly crawled into a small space in the back of the closet, creating an hour long search. She was so ill that she did not eat or drink on her own. She ran a high fever and hardly moved from her corner in the crate we kept her in.
Good thing, I worked for a veterinarian. For weeks, it was touch and go as we pumped antibiotics and fluids into her. She still didn't eat or drink.
Finally, she turned the corner. She would crawl into our laps and purr while we did subcutaneous injections each day. We had a small celebration the first time she finally ate some wet food on her own.
Needless to say, "Squeaky" has survived. She got her name because she constantly sits and squeaks at my husband and myself.
Why? No idea. Just meows and squeaks. Over and over. Trained? Not so much.
Foster failure, yes. No regrets though, at least on my end. My husband, however, will think twice before volunteering to take a "trained cat".
Aw bless, what a tough start to your foster family but she sure landed on her paws with you guys - love a story with a happy ending ð
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