Homer’s Horrific Cat Tummy Troubles

I don’t have a designer breed of cat, like a teacup that grows no larger than a kitten. In fact, my cat was free, deposited on my doorstep by a neighbor who suggested that since he looked clean, I should keep him. Still, last spring, my cat cost me $700, proving that nothing is ever free.

Like all cats, Homer is especially dramatic when vomiting. Instead of behaving as if about to pass anything normal, you’d think he’s about to pass a Buick. And like any cat, he chooses the most inconvenient locations: the couch, the Persian rug, the new duvet cover.

Trouble begins

After two days of Homer vomiting sporadically, I was running out of clean places to sit, as he’d chosen our couch as his vomit spot. I was three months pregnant and a pregnant woman can detect the underlying scent of cat puke lurking under any lavender scented cleanser. Still, aside from the sporadic, yet dramatic hacking, he seemed fine.

Then, suddenly his vomiting became unbearable and constant, nearly hourly. When I locked him in the bathroom to wait out the night, Homer informed me that I was the meanest cat owner ever. He scratched and howled, begging to be released so he could vomit at will wherever he chose. Apparently, the tiles were not to his liking as he preferred to puke only on stainable surfaces.

In the morning, he scowled but did not complain or seemed pained when the vet pressed his abdomen. The vet seemed perplexed. She suggested an x-ray, but pretty much promised it would be a waste of money, as anything she couldn’t feel by touch would be likely too small to show up.

Still racked with guilt from his howls from the night before and imagining how I would’ve felt had my husband locked me in the bathroom for the duration of my first trimester vomit-fest, I sprang for the x-ray. With the x-ray’s assistance, we discovered that a mystery object was indeed blocking my cat’s intestines. The vet presented me with two options: surgery or death. Of course, she phrased it much nicer, calling it, “putting him down.”

I loved my cat, and still do. And especially with pregnancy hormones and dramatic emotions on overdrive, I could never have considered putting him down. Tears welled up and I simply slid my credit card across the counter and watched as they swiped away the nice maternity wardrobe I’d hoped for and made a mental note of the consignment shop down the road.

Mystery solved

After his surgery, I convinced the vet to release Homer to me a day early, despite the fact that he hadn’t “made a poop” yet. I assured them that maybe he was like the rest of us and just needed his own toilet. They urged me to get home in a hurry because they’d given him “something to help the process along.”

With his carrier, the technician handed me a biohazard baggie and asked if I could identify the object they’d removed. As soon as she slid the baggie across the counter, faces appeared from nooks and crannies around the office. Apparently, Homer’s mystery object had stirred up quite the debate and they looked even more eager for my assessment of the object than Homer was to get home to “make.”

“It’s the plastic end cap from one of the doorstops in the house,” I said after turning the baggie over in my hand and examining it for a moment. Looks were exchanged and I half wondered if after I left, money would change hands as well.

There are days, like when my cat lurks on the stairwell and waits to attack until I’ve got an armful of laundry, or when he decides that he wants to howl all night in the living room until I go down and carry his royal highness upstairs to bed, that I wonder if he was worth a $700 surgery. Then, when I pet his head and he purrs in reply, I realize that he’s worth every cent.