That Time a Toad became a Sick Cat

So last Sunday morning I went outside to do some pool maintenance. That’s the fancy word for “turn on the filter and throw a chlorine tablet in the basket,” but having a pool at all makes me feel fancy, so I use fancy words when I talk about it.

Anyway, when I turned on the jets-and-filter-thing (technical term) there was a funny suction noise, like the water wasn’t going through properly. I grabbed a chlorine tab, and opened the lid to the collection-basket-thing to throw the tab in, and I was greeted by the annoyed look of a giant toad who was trapped beneath the flap of the basket-thing.

I screamed, of course. And then took a deep breath because really Heather, it’s a toad, and even though it is giant, it’s still like a gazillion times smaller than you. So I looked at it again thinking maybe I could get it out on my own, and I wouldn’t have to go get my husband (because #feminism). But I couldn’t do it. This situation called for the man of the house.

So the toad was fortunately relieved of his stuck-ness, and while Hannah gave a quick consideration to the idea of kissing him to see if he turned into a prince, we passed that over. They put him in a box, and drove down to a creek nearby to put him back in his happy place.

I assume it was a he. I’ve never heard of a she-toad, though I suspect they must exist because how else will toad-babies be born? I don’t know. And I’ve probably just offended someone by misgendering the toad.

Anyway, back to the story. Which, at this point, I thought was over. I put the chlorine tablet into the basket, cleaned up some leaves in the water, fished out some dead bugs, and went back to my day.

A few minutes later they arrive back, and Hannah comes running up the steps. “Mom! Should we just feed the cat, or should we bring the cat home?” At which point I asked for some context. Apparently there was a sick cat laying on the bridge by the creek, crying out for help.

Well, nothing pulls at the heartstrings like a sick, crying cat, so we went back into the car, armed with a box and an old blanket, and headed off to check out the said sick cat.

So there it was, sitting on the side of a bridge, looking pathetic. I parked off to the side, and slowly approached it, but it didn’t need any coaxing. It immediately could sense that I was a good person, there to help it, and it hopped up on to my chest, into my arms. The cat came home with us, and lived in Hannah’s old bedroom, where it rested and got to know us. Hannah named it Moonflower.

We could tell Moonflower was very sick. She was skinny, and had a hard time drinking, and we weren’t sure she would live through the night. As it turned out, she lived through five nights. She spent six days with us, getting to be loved, petted, fed (though she never ate), and feeling safe, and as comfortable as possible. We took her to the vet yesterday, and when they ran the various tests on her, found a blood infection, kidney failure, and general body shutdown.

We gave the okay to put her down. There was no part of me that questioned the decision. She was incredibly sick, and miserable, and wasn’t going to get better. And I’m pretty sure that if you went up to a sick feral cat who was dying on a bridge and said, “hey, come to our house and experience six blissfully safe and loved days, and then have a very peaceful death surrounded by the humans who have loved you,” any stray cat on a bridge would be like, “hell yeah, sign me up.”

I would have loved to have known her better, and known her story. How did she get to that bridge in that moment? What led her to be on that bridge then? I also would have loved to have gotten to know her better – she was the snuggliest and most trusting cat I’ve ever met, and I wish she would have been able to get better, and spend more of her life with us.

But we’re grateful for the time we had with her, and even moreso, we’re grateful that she got to go in peace, and we were there to hold her paw on her way out.

It’s been an emotional week, y’all.