by Ruthie Spoonemore

Created on: April 24, 2010

Our back porch is the neighborhood diner for stray cats. Over the years, an array of felines has discovered the free meal. Occasionally one visitor catches our attention; this time he was a sorry looking kitty, small and skinny. His fur was drab and matted and one ear was missing a bite-sized chunk out of it.

We watched him hungrily attack the food, snorting with every bite. "The poor thing is starving," I said. "He must have been in a terrible fight; he has a bloody nose."

Noticing there was also mucus running out of his nose, I added, "He might have a respiratory infection." 

My family called him "Sick Kitty" "He looks like he survived a train wreck, so he deserves a strong masculine name." I said. "I'm calling him "Bruno.""

We started feeding him special tidbits of fried chicken and spoons full of wet cat food in hopes of fattening him up. The scraps appeared to make him better. Although he didn't get any fatter, his fur got shinier, and his nose stopped bleeding.

Yes, we spoiled him, yet he remained cautious with sad looking eyes. "I wish I could pick him up, cuddle him, and reassure him that he was safe." My heart ached when I saw him.

Every day we talked to him, gently coaxing him closer. Soon he began grabbing the food from our hands and allowing us to touch his back.

On the fourth of July, we sat on the porch watching the fireworks; Bruno sat on the sidewalk nearby. He ignored the deafening explosions throughout the neighborhood. All the other cats were in hiding and all the dogs were barking, but he went about his business unfazed. His ears didn't even twitch when one particularly loud boom made me jump. "He's either deaf or really laid back." I thought.

A few months later, Bruno's bloody nose returned. "We should take him to the veterinarian and see if he has a respiratory infection and needs antibiotics." Since it was getting colder, we were considering bringing him inside for the winter.

Putting a big piece of fried chicken enticed Bruno into the kennel; he was always hungry. Although he wasn't used to confinement, there were only a few cries of protest. Even during the examination, Bruno remained calm, letting the veterinarian poke and prod him with little complaint.

With Bruno back in the kennel, I stuck my fingers through the wire door and wiggled them playfully. "He acts like he knows we're trying to help him."

Sadly, after running some tests, we discovered Bruno had the Feline Immunodeficiency Virus (FIV). In fact, the disease had progressed into feline aids.

Tears ran down my cheeks. "Can we do anything for him?" Having a friend with aids, I knew how destructive it can be for humans and suspected it wasn't much different with cats.

"Cats infected with FIV could lead normal lives when properly cared for," the vet told us. "But there is the possible risk of transmitting it to other cats. Generally, the diseased cat is isolated from healthy cats." We had two indoor cats so this would not be possible. She continued, "There are places that accept FIV infected felines, unfortunately, the ones nearby are full and not accepting more cats."

After much discussion, we made the difficult decision to euthanize him. Before leaving the room, I reached into the kennel and caressed his side. "Good-bye Bruno, I'm going to miss you."

Who would have guessed this dirty and scrawny kitty would dig his way so deep into our lives. He wasn't with us very long, yet he will always have a spot in our hearts.

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