Intro

I should probably start this blog with a little background.  I have always loved cats.  My husband (now ex) hated and was allergic (was he really?) to cats.  I always had feral cats that I would save (as well as possums, snakes and other wild animals innumerable), and bring home, but they were always outdoor (fine for those cats, they refused to come in the house), and then there was Spaz.

I was driving to work one day and saw in the road what looked like a grocery bag in the middle of the adjacent lane.  A closer look revealed ears.  EARS?!  So I pulled over and this little bundle of cold, wet, grey fur is dragging itself along the macadam, trying to get out of the road.  I saw the city bus coming toward us both as I stand in the street and tried to generate the nerve to pick her up, though I'm afraid I'll feel broken bones if I do.  The bus threatens us both; so I say (convincingly to myself) 'one, two, three', and reach down and just grabbed her as gently and quickly as possible and jumped back into my car, and placed her gingerly on the front floor board of my car and put it in gear - panting and a bit in shock as I drive away.

Inexplicably, she starts freaking out and flailing about with incredible gusto.  In fact, I was terrified that I would have an accident or that she was going to die, right there in my car.  I pulled over at a service station and talked to her a bit, and she's entirely unhappy: completely soaked through, and really moving about with distressing dystaxia.  I decided to go on to work, and try to get her to a vet, silently praying that she'd survive.

$100.00 later, and she was determined to have no broken bones.  But why then was she walking entirely discombobulated?  She was completely palsied, and couldn't move well, her back legs would take off in a direction unrelated to her front legs, and it clearly distressed her to move like that as much as it distressed me to see it.  So I did what any self respecting tree hugging muffin head would do; I called my chiropractor.  Now, my relationship with my chiropractors may be a subject for an entirely separate blog, but suffice it to say, that we go way back, and likely they saved my life.

The phone conversation went something like this:

Me: Hi, it's Cristal, I'd like to talk to Dr. M please.

Receptionist: ok, he's with a patient, hang on

(a few minutes later)

Dr. M: Hi, what can I do for you?

Me: Hi, Dr. M (relate abbreviated version of story above), so I think she needs an adjustment, can you do that?

(Silence)

Dr. M: Um, officially, no.

Me: Have you ever adjusted an animal?

Dr. M: yes, but only family pets (explains difficulty and legality of doing so)

Me: OK, so how can we do this without you getting in trouble?

Dr. M: Bring her to the office and I'll meet you in the parking lot

Me: see you just before the office closes

And that was that.  Apparently, to be an animal chiropractor you have to go to both veterinary school and chiropractic college.  Imagine that!  So, of course, they charge exorbitant prices.  But, off the record, free of charge, and not in the office, my doctor will do almost anything to help a living being that needs it.  He's a wonderful human.

So, I get to the office, and go inside to tell the receptionist that I'm here with the 'patient' and I wait outside with her in a file box that I commandeered as an ersatz kitty carrier to transport her.  He comes out, and the two of us crowd (we are both around 6 feet tall, he taller, I slightly smaller) into the back seat of my Prius with the file box between us.  I pull off the lid, and there is this little grey terrified bundle of fur.  She's got a bit of blood on the paper below her where she peed, and she's completely wide eyed, but calm.  I reach in and pull her out so he can see her dystaxia for himself, and she's still totally cattywompus when she moves.  He takes her in his giant hands and feels her lower spine, near her pelvis.  He squeezes a bit, and moves her over in his hands.  She's completely still, letting him move her about, an entirely wild cat: not a screech, growl, scratch or bite.  He gives her a couple of little twists, and then puts her back in the box.  We smile at each other like only unindicted co-conspirators can.

Now for the fun part, taking her home to the ogre.  

This was near the end of our marriage, and I increasingly was less accepting of his refusals of everything I wanted to do.  I insisted that she would stay in the house, and she did.  This lasted until I finally left, and he kept the house and all the accoutrements.  He promptly put the cat outside, and she became semi-feral again.  I would visit: my youngest son (I stayed until he was 18), the house, my garden, and my pets; but I couldn't offer anything as I struggled through the reality of my decision to leave - and leave my ex with everything - as I clung only to my freedom.  It took eight months to regain custody of Spaz and my 14 year old dog, Sebastian, but finally I had a place to live and I had my pets with me.  After the second night of living in relative captivity she couldn't take it any longer and howled at the door to go out.

I let her out, and that was the last I saw of her.

I waited; called for weeks, and sat outside hoping to hear her familiar meow as I had when I had visited her at my old house.  I waited.  I hoped.  She didn't come home.

After a few months, I decided to try to rescue some of the many abandoned, and distressed cats that my friend Ann sends me emails about on an almost daily basis.  I can't save every cat, but I could save one.

We were going to lunch, she, the Lovely Ms. Brenda, and I, and as we were walking in I started to mention that I wanted a cat.  And she blurts out a response that she know of a little black cat that needs a home.  I adore black cats.  In fact, that was exactly what I wanted to adopt: a little black kitten.  I smiled, sure that kismet was at work, and told her to have the rescue lady call me.

That was how I came to meet Nick, and Sophie.