by Courtney Hurd

Created on: May 26, 2008

I Have a Tabby Cat, He's Not Just Any Cat
When I was sixteen years old, my biggest ambition was to be a vet. I lived out in a rural part of Wisconsin, and had spent a few summers with a very kind vet as a ride-along assistant in a mobile clinic. I had learned to do IV's, sutures, some diagnostics and treatments. There was so much to learn, and I wanted more. The good doctor could not take me every summer because he had other real students to teach, and I needed a real job. That summer, I found a job on a sheep farm where I did some light landscaping around the house and attended to the nighttime feeding and water rounds.

Since I was the last one to see the animals for the day, it was also my job to look for any sick or injured animals. Sometimes, there was an ewe giving a late birth, or a leg that had gotten cut out in the fields. Once, there was a pregnant ewe that had her eye poked out. I would do the best I could and mark the sheep with a bright orange paint pen, then leave a note for the next shift as to which pasture and what was wrong.
A few months after I started, something went wrong with the barn cats. These cats were something special to Janey, the owner, and she was very distressed to see them dying so fast. One night, she asked me to catch the sick ones and quarantine them in the 'cottage.' I did my best, concentrating my efforts on the kittens, who seemed to be the sickest of the lot. It took me a few days to catch them all, they were so feral and shy. Janey went to the vet and got a round of antibiotics, and I was given the task of medicating them all. There were around 23 in quarantine at one time, though many of them were too sick to survive. After I had lost eight of the kittens, I began taking the sickest home with me to treat throughout the night. I lost three more this way, much to my distress.
One of the last kittens I brought up to the cottage was the wildest of them all. He was very ill when I caught sight of him, though it still took me over an hour to catch him. He bit and scratched and protested at the top of his lungs, but I finally got him quarantined. I started him on antibiotics and introduced him to the 'mother' cat- a female who had given birth, gotten sick, and recovered. She was the nursemaid for all those kittens, and a very loveable and agreeable cat. That last kitten remained the hardest to catch during medicating time, and remained aggressive and ornery despite the continued contact.
A week later, I found that kitten laying

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