World

About Cat (Reading is not recommended, at work, the day will be torn)

bez-imeni-1-vosstanovleno

 

The first ten years of his life, he was just a cat. A strong, impudent creature of gray-brown color, with dense long hair, huddled on its sides into eternal tangles. Impervious deep scratches on the face and tattered ears gave him a completely gangster look.

In the open spaces of our old and neglected apartment, he lived by robbery. Outside, he did not disdain violence. He demanded the observance of rights and lived so that he had no duties. Being the center in the district, he mercilessly beat all the surrounding cats, completely inadequately responding to the slightest creeps in his direction. Sometimes it seemed that he became a karateka of Masutatsi Oyama, it was with pressure that he rushed to all opponents.

His name appeared only when his daughter grew up, and he had the name Tim. The cat was harsh. Taking me as an equal, he definitely placed his wife and daughter below himself in the family hierarchy and treated them with condescending contempt. The small one, growing up, took such a situation as it is, while the wife, having received the helm of control over me, tried to set up the cat for herself

Stumbling in the final stage of a turbulent honeymoon intercourse on a gloomily stricken, half-eyes through which the cat squeamishly watched the master’s fuss, she was embarrassed each time, and smelled into a sheet, demanding to remove this impudent animal. Having achieved the desired result, the cat with its tail lifted left.

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Pride never allowed him to ask, he always either demanded or took with battle. Carefully put by the wife in a clean bowl, the food was weighed and disappeared. Hungry and angry, he condescended to participate in a family dinner: sitting down in front of a table on a loose stool, laid his head on the table and closed his eyes, demonstrating complete indifference to what was happening. But it was worth being distracted only for a second — a spread out, with claws released, paw and with an elusive movement pulled a cutlet or sausage from the nearest plate from under the table with a swift hook.

Same as in his bowl. Deservedly having received a heavy kick from me, he skipped the kitchen and the entrance hall with no sound and crashed into the door of the bathtub as if nothing had happened and proudly lifted his tail and went back so that I could eat a piece of honestly earned at my feet. Despite everything, we respected each other, but the rules also had to be respected. Law is law.

He was from the first litter of a neighbor’s cat. The first litter is always said to be the strongest. Three gray smoky and one dirty brown. He was impudent from birth — while other kittens, finding a free booze, calmed down and were saturated, he indignantly squeaked and crawled around his mother, ignoring the free nipples, until he drove away one of the brothers and took his place.

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Fish was his passion. Any: fried, boiled, salty, frozen, rotten. But especially alive. He got the food masterly. As an experienced footballer, when cornering, he flew headlong to the sound of the refrigerator being opened and, getting under his feet, tried in a bustle to implement a standard draw. Not a single fact of the seizure of anything edible came past his deliberately indifferent gaze. Everything that was forgotten or left for at least a minute became his legal prey. Therefore, meat and fish traveled around the house in a short pass, like a ball from a bazaar thimble, without remaining undisguised for a minute.

The fish almost ruined him. Having stolen one night from neighbors through an open window leaf a chopped tail of a hefty kilogram in three pieces, he brought it of course home, and tried to eat it on the carpet in the living room. The banquet ended with one of the bones stuck in the throat piercing his esophagus and trachea. I found him at about six in the morning in a hiding place under the kitchen corner. Foam came from his mouth, and he looked like a ball fish. Part of the exhaled air through a hole entered under the skin, and the Cat was inflated literally before our eyes. It was Saturday morning. The veterinarian worked on this day from 12. It was urgent to take action.

The role of the savior was assigned to a neighbor — a 75-year-old Jewish woman, a retired gynecologist. Awakened, the grandmother of God dandelion with blue hair grunted a little, but could not refuse. Carefully, having washed her yellow bony hands, and putting on rubber gloves, the former, famous, great gynecologist with a confident step of the winner entered the kitchen.

 

— Cat, open your mouth.

 

In her hand in the rays of the rising sun shone something resembling the shape of a duck beak and a large clothespin.

 

Congenital courage told me that this device can be safely called 3.14 zdoscope. My suspicions were indirectly confirmed by my wife, who froze, blushed and bashfully hid in the bath. Surprised by such a retirement, the Cat not unreasonably decided that now this device would stick in his mouth, and switched to active defense, inflicting several deep scratches on his potential savior. The fight ended with a technical knockout and for the clear advantage of one of the parties. While the granny, wishing the cat various long and painful deaths, healed battle wounds, through a friend I found the phone of a girl — a veterinarian. Agreed on nine.

The veterinarian in our city is a large brick hangar of a pre-revolutionary building with a concrete floor. A machine for sadomasochistic games with cattle is mounted in the middle of the room. Behind the flimsy screen stands a metal-studded table. This is an operating room. Another savior is a chubby young frightened girl, besides from my school, but five years younger.

 

“My name is Lina and you will help me,” she says

. “Are you not afraid of blood?”

“I’m afraid of course, but what to do then …”

 

At this point, the cat filled the entire gym bag, which was put in for transportation and had to be cut. Having injected medicine into his inner thigh, Lina ran away to prepare an “operating room”.

“He will fall asleep now, and bring the cat.”

 

The cat did not fall asleep. Five minutes later, the injection was repeated. Then again. Finally, after half an hour, when Lina, according to her, had already rolled a dose for the calf, the sufferer relaxed and fell asleep

 

I began to feel nauseous right away, as soon as she began to tie cat’s paws to the table. I hate medical odors. Having spread the cat upside down, she forced me to hold his head, and she, having thrust her tweezers deep into the mouth, pulled out a hefty jagged bone .

— This is not enough. It is necessary to blow it off and be sure to sew up the trachea. I will cut, and you hold your neck. You can not watch.

 

It’s easy to say, hold your neck — the Cat by that time looked like a pouted rubber glove, and the concept of neck was as relative to him as the concept of waist in Lena.

«fiiiii» — came out of the cat lightly at the moment when she made the first incision.

I felt a thin stream of air blowing from below into my face, somehow smelling of fresh fish. At that moment I added to it the thick aroma of yesterday’s soup and morning meat , fanning them around the operating table.

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— That`s all? Lina inquired as if nothing had happened — and now we are blowing away.

And we began to drive the air to the cut in the throat with four hands, as if we had blown off the mattress on the beach. After the Cat looked like a deflated ball, the fun began — OPERATION! According to my feelings, when cats were cut in pre-graduation practice, Lina had a bad mood. She missed this topic. In general, the search for the trachea turned into a search for treasure from the crew of the submarine. If it weren’t for my ingenuity, they would still be looking. Soap, I say, anoint — where the bubbles will be, there is a hole. And  burped again. But already in the tool tray, culturally. And then he suddenly remembered how Bulgakov read about a tracheotomy. Cut, I speak more deeply.

 

-Found it …

 

… The cat began to come to his senses and run around the operating table, bit Lina, managed to free his hind legs and blew them all the tools to the floor. Then he scratched my hands and tried to get up.

The veterinarian pushed me away, pressed the cat to the table with her breast and injected him with more medicine. Or holy water, I don’t remember, because I felt bad

 

That night, the cat was named Church — in honor of the cat from King’s Pet Cemetery. About three o’clock in the night, running straight through to the toilet, the wife was greeted by a wadding, stumbling, unbending legs spherical creature, emitting gurgling-croaking sounds. The cat became healthy and wanted to eat. Having eaten, he climbed onto our bed and began to lick my hands. For the first time in recent history. I suspect that this was a manifestation of gratitude. In this case, his unblinking eyes were wide open and adhering hairs and pieces of garbage were visible on them.

“Everyone sows what he can and reaping the benefits (s)”

 

Then the cat gradually stopped pouting, but he did not learn to meow. But the ill-fated that fishtail he found and finished the next day, for him it was a matter of principle. For the path of the warrior is the path of death.


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