A wild child has a near-death experience
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Manohra gasps for breath as a lung infection takes hold
ONE MOMENT, I’m in a taxi taking Wild Child Manohra to the vet to treat what I think is a minor cough; the next moment, I’m watching the little cat struggle at the brink of death.
When I first hear Manohra coughing a week or so before, I don’t worry too much. “It’s just a fur ball,” I think. I give her some fur-ball gel, and the coughing stops, for awhile.
A few days later, the coughs resume, and I begin to worry.
The problem is that Manohra hides her health problems. She avoids coughing in front of me, and for days, I think she’s stopped coughing. In fact, she simply makes sure not to call attention to herself, hiding her problem, the way lots of animals do.
The cat can’t hide everything, though. I do notice that she doesn’t seem as active as usual. She’s not even interested in fighting the other cats. She even waits politely for the other cats to finish their food before she sneaks in to steal what’s left.
Her appetite fools me for awhile. If she’s eating, she still must be all right – right?
No. Eventually, she can’t even hide that cough, which sounds worse and more frequent. It’s time to take her to the vet.
As I put her in the carrier, Manohra turns into one extremely unhappy feline. She begins screaming her little heart out, as in, “No! No! Don’t take me to kitty jail!”
Usually, after the initial panic in the carrier, she settles down, but this time is different. Luckily, I find a taxi almost immediately, but as we head towards the clinic, Manohra begins gasping for air.
She’s having trouble breathing, real trouble. She sounds as if she’s strangling, unable to pull another breath into her body.
I watch her helplessly; there’s nothing I can do until we reach the clinic, but will we get there in time?
Finally at the clinic, she’s panting and still gasping for air. The vet doesn’t even try to examine her. Instead, Manohra goes into a chamber where she receives extra oxygen as a soothing mist.
It takes hours to stabilise her breathing. Then, X-rays of her lungs reveal a massive lung infection. By that evening, thanks to the oxygen and antibiotic injections, she begins to settle down.
By the next morning, she’s started eating, but she’s still having trouble breathing. She spends several more hours in the chamber.
When I visit her, she recognises me instantly. “Hello!” I think she says. “I’m ready to go home now.”
She really does want to go home, but she’s far from being well enough. It takes more than a week before she stops panting and starts breathing normally.
In addition to medication, the vet would like to continue the treatment in the oxygen chamber, but after a few days, Manohra absolutely refuses to go in the chamber. Of course, she can be forced into the chamber, but once inside, she refuses to relax.
“Let me out of here!” she screams, bouncing around inside.
Of course, as Manohra grows more excited, she begins panting badly. It’s much better, the vet decides, to stop that part of the treatment.
Imagine. The cat is telling the vet what to do.
I’m still shaken by the experience. From thinking that the cat had a simple cough, I watched the situation escalate in a few short minutes to near-death.
The clinic is also shaken, I think. Manohra is due to come home in a few days, but she won’t be released until the vet is positive the lung infection is completely cleared up.
In this case, they won’t ask Manohra what she thinks. An X-ray will say whether the lungs are clear.
