The cat’s tail

Our cat went strolling in front of the neighbor’s dog. The dog went into red alert and attacked. With a loud yowl, our mixed breed of charcoal striped and calico patches leaped into the nearest pine tree.
With its tail at full mast, the cat turned to hiss her rage at being scared half out of herwits – and fell out of the tree. That’s what the neighbor’s said happened when they handed the limp pile of fur to my children.
Its pride was crushed. It was in shock from the fall and its tail was limp. Between her sob and sniffs over the phone, I finally heard my daughter say, “the cat’s tail is broken.”
I called the vet. I understood him to say we could either have him amputate the tail or just wait and see.
I called home and explained the options. “Is the cat in any pain right now?”
“No, it’s sleeping in my lap.”
“Then let’s just wait.”
The next phone call, days later was a duet of cat yowls and a sobbing screams, “The cat’s tail is broken.”
“I know that.”
“No, Mom, it got caught in the door. It’s bent.”
By the time I arrived home, the cat was resting quietly. About two-inches from the body, the tail had a kink. Below the kink was a limp rope of fur.

For days I debated between going to the vet for an amputation and hoping it would recover. Keeping the tail attached, without that mysterious feline twitch, seemed pointless, but maybe it just needed time to awaken the injured nerves for it to quit looking like a rag.
The cat didn’t even wash that rag of a tail. She seemed to think the rag was a toy mouse and began playing an “I’m gonna eat you” game with the mussed-up fur. She chomped down HARD. The cat’s yowl of pain, confusion and dismay announced that life remained in the dead-looking tail.

That bite began awakening the stunned nerves. The cat quit using her tail as a toy mouse. With is sandpaper tongue she perpetually cleaned the fur, massaging the nerves back into awareness.
The tail still hung like a flag on a windless summer day, but it was neatly groomed and the cat knew it was part of her.
The kink stayed, yet ever so slightly I noticed that the tip moved up off the ground.

A few days later I saw the tail make a gentle curve away from the door as it came inside.
A fraction of an inch at a time, the tail moved higher and wider. The day I noticed the tail giving a warning swish as the cat stalked my daughter, I almost applauded.

Then that cat crouched across the room from me. She watched my toes nervously tap out my impatience as I worked on some papers. Her eyes, paws, body and tail twitched from side to side revealing her intent to attack. With a bounding leap, she hurled itself across the room and pierced my bare feet with claws and teeth. I quit applauding.
When it wasn’t aiming for my feet, I celebrated the signposts of healing as the tail swished its warnings, made a playful flip or curled cozily around its sleeping head.

Retaining a now barely discernible kink, the cat has its tail. As much aa I don’t like having my toes attacked, I’m glad those few inches of fur-covered bones are still there to warn me when it’s time to run for cover.


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