When to help is the only option

THIS PAST SPRING, A GOOD SAMARITAN found a cat wandering around behind my local grocery store. The cat didn’t look well. It was going to snow that night. So the person scooped him up and drove him to a vet clinic — as it happens, the one where my husband, Mike, works. The cat’s rescuer said that not helping him just didn’t feel like an option. The kitty had no collar and no microchip. Sure, he could go to a shelter. But really, the vet clinic appeared to be the best place for him.

He was weak and covered in mats. When the vet staff shaved them off, they found that those mats had been hiding a cat suffering from extreme malnutrition and dehydration. He likely wouldn’t have survived much longer without help.

After a day of fluids, food and supportive care, the poor kitty still wasn’t doing well. But Mike and his colleagues wanted to give him more time. After talking as a family, we decided to bring him home for the weekend. Not doing so just didn’t feel like an option. We told ourselves it was just for the weekend. But I knew, before even meeting the cat, that we were making a commitment to do our best to help him heal no matter the duration.

Truth be told, he was a bit painful to look at. Every one of my nurturing instincts kicked in. He was unable to walk far and certainly wasn’t up to meeting our other pets, so we turned our guest room into a cozy haven with various soft beds peppered around, a heater, and food and water all within about a whisker’s reach.

We explained to our young son, Zach, that we weren’t sure this kitty would survive, but that we wanted to give him every opportunity that we could to see if we could turn things around. We told him we wanted “that poor kitty” to heal, but we didn’t know if it would happen. Zach told us that he was very excited to have a new cat. And we explained that if the cat was able to heal, our home might not be the right one for him.

Zach solemnly said he understood. He leaned down and told our visitor, about 30 minutes after his arrival: “Hi, poor kitty. I love you. You are going to have a good life here no matter how long that is. And if you die, I will plant something in your name and remember you for always.” Then Zach got down to business and called a family meeting and told us the cat needed a name.

We sat on the floor in the middle of all those beds and discussed and debated and landed on Grumbolt, a character in a book we’d been reading about a stuffed animal who has a heart of gold and a bit of a wonky body. Giving the kitty a name felt like another commitment — we had recognized him as an individual. He was more than our patient now and we’d do our best to give him dignity.

Grumbolt never regained much of an appetite. After a little more than a week of food, kindness and medical help — with no improvements — he began to have seizures. We had another family meeting and decided that the most compassionate thing we could do was let him go with love.

I’m grateful that Grumbolt met people toward the end of his life who knew that not helping simply wasn’t an option. We’ll plant something for him and remember him always.

Grumbolt As animal lovers, we often find ourselves in the position of lending a hand to animals in need. We’d love to hear your stories of providing a homeless pet with shelter from the storm. Write to us at editor@bestfriends.org.

Elissa with Scruffy Elissa Jones is the senior director of communications and creative content for Best Friends Animal Society. That means she oversees our imagery, editorial and publications functions and, of course, the micro and macro details of the very magazine you’re holding right now. Because she lives and breathes Best Friends, it only makes sense for our readers to hear from her directly. So here goes.