Ive changed some of this- my professor said to take it outside of a blog post realm and instead, add more description (its hard to do when I am talking about medical terms and shit). Anyhoo- read, critique ;) (I have a much harder time editing versus w Neala’s Story It is almost an obligation for a breeder to find each and every one of their kittens beautiful… From the runt to the biggest bossiest baby, you are supposed to find beauty within each precious soul. Yet I will tell you a secret… The tiny mottled grey tortoiseshell that would inspire the internet and people all around the world was honestly an ugly baby. Perhaps it was because she was born alongside kittens with more vivid colors or perhaps it was her extreme wrinkled skin, but when I was asked to send photos of this kitten born in April to a potential new home, alongside photos of a different kitten, I confided in a friend that I knew this home would choose the other kitten. I simply did not find this little female to be the ‘cream of the crop’ as they say. Yet the potential home saw a kitten that was beautiful and unique. They must have seen this Sphynx, even in her newborn photos, as the precious soul that she was because they emailed me immediately back and said, “THIS IS OUR KITTEN” (Yes, indeed, in all capital letters). The baby grew and was apparently thriving. While I did not find her appealing in looks, she had a spunky spirit and was one of the larger kittens out of the litter of seven. She seemed to grow well and was always at a nipple, nursing, and when she wasn’t- she was looking for trouble alongside her siblings. Her spirit was beautiful and that counted more than her coloring. Her name was Neala. One day, when Neala was five or six weeks old, I entered the kitten room to check on her and her siblings. Stepping in a pile of slimy grey vomit, I immediately cringed and cried out in revulsion. “Gross! Which one of you stinkers did this?” Six pairs of vivid blue eyes stared at me from various positions in the room. No one confessed. Looking around, I noted Neala in the corner, withdrawn from the antics of her siblings, who had just realized they had legs and were prancing and pouncing throughout the room. Realizing the hunched position was possibly due to an upset tummy often caused by the stringent dewormer I used with the kittens, I promised myself to keep an eye on her. No more piles of puke accosted me over the next week and I was pleased to note that Neala’s weight was stable. Yet another week passed and although Neala was not losing, she was not steadily gaining weight like the other kittens. This time, I had no idea what culprit could be. There was no change of diet, no scheduled vaccinations or medication, and no loose stools in the litter box to accompany the lack of weight gain. Knowing that kittens should gain eight to ten grams of weight a day at this point, I resorted to sitting with Neala with a plate of food and watching her. Neala was not a gobbler of food. She did not inhale every morsel on her plate nor did she growl and shove her siblings away like some of the bigger kittens. Instead, she curled her tiny rat-like tail around her front paws and daintily picked at her plate. Her tiny pink nose would come away smudged with food, but a quick swipe of her tongue would polish it clean again. As I sat watching her eat, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. No hesitation, no issue swallowing or chewing. As soon as the plate was cleaned, I picked it up and turned to walk away. Suddenly, an intense hurking noise alerted me and I spun around. Neala was hunched over, her tiny shoulder blades shaking with violent spasms until her breakfast slopped back out onto the floor. Before I could find a rag to clean it up, Neala bent over and began to eat once again, cleaning the regurgitated food off of the floor. This routine continued over the next few days. Neala would eat, walk away and regurgitate and then she would eat the mushy food she had just vomited. Sometimes, it would stay down and sometimes, she would go through this routine again and again. As a former pet rescuer as well as a vet technician, I did not panic. I tried different consistencies of food, hoping it was a food allergy, but eventually nothing stayed down. Even kitten glop- a conglomeration of evaporated milk, Pedialyte and yogurt- would not eventually spew out onto the tile floor after Neala had patiently lapped it up. I was worried about Neala and therefore first contacted her future home to inform them of the situation and then arranged a visit to my veterinarian. Asking the typical questions, my vet checked off the normal issues that I had already considered. Stumped, she scratched Neala on the top of her mottled grey head and suggested performing a barium series of x-rays as the next step in diagnosing Neala’s condition. Taking her into the back exam room, the technicians hand-fed the kitten a syinge of sodium-sulfate and then a series of x-rays were shot, tracking the barium’s journey into the intestinal tract. The news I received from the x-rays was not positive. As my vet pointed out on the picture lit up on the computer screen, the barium entered the esophagus and then as it attempted its journey further into the body, a stricture prevented the majority of the barium from continuing. This stricture was the reason behind Neala’s inability to eat and digest solid foods; the solids were not making it into her stomach. Neala’s condition was known as ‘Persistent Right Aortic Arch’ or PRAA. In layman’s terms, when a fetus develops, there is a loop that goes from the heart over the esophagus and as the fetus grows, the loop falls away and becomes nonexistent by birth. In PRAA, the loop remains and stops solid foods from venturing further down into the digestive system. My vet immediately warned me it was a very expensive surgery to correct this condition. While the chance of success was optimal in a very young animal, the cost was prohibitive. The quote from our local surgical centers for surgery for Neala ranged from $4000-$5000. If she did not have the surgery, Neala would remain at a high risk for inhalation pneumonia for her entire life and would probably succumb to pneumonia. She would have to live on a liquid diet and would never be able to eat solid foods, not even the softest canned cat food. Research found the surgery success rates encouraging, yet they were based off surgeries performed on puppies, not kittens. No surgeon I spoke with had ever performed this surgery on a cat before. The breeds of dogs that were prone to this condition were also very large breeds- from Doberman Pinschers to German Shepherd Dogs. Puppies of these various breeds all weigh significantly more than tiny Neala, who was less than a pound at the time of her diagnosis. Therefore while the success rate was rather high for puppies undergoing this surgery, I had to question whether a hairless kitten, with less than a pound of body mass, would have anywhere near the same chances of success as a large breed puppy. At the time of diagnosis, my veterinarian suggested starting a donation drive for Neala to have the corrective surgery to fix her PRAA. I immediately scoffed at the idea- who would donate money to a tiny kitten that was born in a cattery? I did not even give the idea a second thought. Immediately returning home for the harrowing veterinarian visit, I posted on my Facebook wall about Neala’s situation and her prospective future surgery. Numerous suggestions were made and many prayers were offered, but I knew only action would save this kitten’s life. As I began talking to surgeons throughout the country and looking into options, people online began asking that we accept donations for Neala’s surgery and within two days of her diagnosis and hearing repeatedly increasing price ranges for the surgery, I decided I would accept donations. During that first week, I started a website for Neala, opened a blog that I updated multiple times daily, and started a Facebook page devoted to this spirited Sphynx kitten and her condition. I spoke to one other breeder who had experienced PRAA in one of her own kittens (sadly, the kitten did not survive long enough to even attempt the surgery) and with dog owners who had also faced this surgery with their own animals. Donations started to roll in, but also more suggestions- suggestions for surgical centers all over the country. I spoke to surgical centers in California (just as expensive as Nevada) to Arizona to Michigan. I was then directed to a center in a neighboring state, with a board certified surgeon with a state of the art surgical center, whom had performed PRAA surgeries before, even on a miniscule Chihuahua, and their price was $1000-$2000 lower than local. After my vet spoke to the surgeon and ensured they understand the particulars of Neala’s case, we booked the surgery and planned a trip out to Salt Lake City, Utah. During this time, Neala was on a strict diet of Science Diet A/D mixed with kitten glop. It was almost a liquid diet, but she rarely regurgitated it and was even gaining a little bit of weight. Neala was a playful, happy kitten, although she did not have the energy level of her siblings. She would climb up your back and roost on your shoulder while the other kittens played and she seemed to crave attention and warmth. My plan was simple- I would drive the six hours to Salt Lake City early in the week, have Neala’s surgery the next day and then within the next 24-48 hours, if she survived the surgery, we would return home. I booked a hotel using reward points and soon I was on the road with Neala towards Salt Lake City and her surgery to correct her PRAA. The drive to Utah from Las Vegas was uninspiring, but as I placed my hand in the crate perched next to me on the front seat and felt Neala’s body rumbling with a purr, I knew we were headed in the right direction. We checked into the hotel that night and settled in to await the morning. That night was hectic. I wanted to sleep, but Neala had other plans. Although she was too small to jump from the carpeted floor to the bed, she soon realized she could launch herself at the comforter, use her needle sharp claws to scale the soft bedding and then climb to the top of my head to survey the unknown world of the hotel room. That night, for the first time ever, she climbed onto my lap and started to purr. It was at that moment that I truly believed that Neala would survive her surgery. I had no doubt in my mind that her strength of spirit would persevere and that she would wake from her corrective surgery. We arrived at the surgical center early the next morning and were ushered into a room where a vet tech wrote down all of the pertinent information. Her corrective surgery was the only surgery for the day and the technician explained to me all of the technological advances the center had to ensure a tiny kitten like Neala would survive the surgery. From heated operating tables to a device that would surround her and warm her after the surgery, they had all of the bells and whistles one might ask from a surgical center. It was clean, the staff was capable and caring, and I felt extremely confident leaving Neala in their hands. Striding into the small exam room, already crowded with the vet tech, myself and Neala prancing self-importantly on the metal table, the surgeon entered. He was a tall man, well tanned and sporting a crisp white exam coat. . We spent time discussing Neala’s surgery and the possible outcomes. While surviving the surgery was the major hurdle, I also wanted to ensure Neala would have a normal life afterwards and would no longer suffer from constant regurgitation and the constant threat of inhalation pneumonia. Unfortunately, due to a condition called mega-esophagus that Neala had developed, where the esophagus balloons outward due to the PRAA constriction, I would have to wait and see. The outcome, however, was in our favor; she had not had mega-esophagus for an outstanding length of time and the surgeon reassured me he believed Neala would go on to live a normal life. Leaving Neala was nerve-wracking. She was purring for the staff and charming them with her personality, but walking away knowing her life was in their hands was an uncomfortable feeling. That morning passed in slow motion. I did not expect a phone call until noon, but suffered impatiently nonetheless. When the surgeon finally called me, I could not breathe. I just wanted to know whether the surgery was a success. Tears formed when he told me that not only was the surgery successful, but after an initial touch-and-go period where Neala was having issues controlling her body temperature, she had rallied her strength of spirit and rebounded. She was resting comfortably at that point in time and the surgeon had high hopes that Neala would be able to go home the next day. I was ecstatic and the rest of the day was a blur. That evening, as I sat on the well worn couch in the visiting room at the surgical center, I cradled an exhausted appearing kitten in my lap. She was wrapped in a pink fleece baby blanket and as I unwrapped it to examine her surgical site, I was shocked at the immensity of the scar. It slid from one juncture of her rib cage to almost her spine on her left side and although it was only an inch in length, with its vivid white and blue stitches, Neala appeared to be a tiny Frankenstein cat, an experiment gone wrong. I was also startled to realize Neala was cool to the touch. Although her minute motor was running underneath my fingertips, always willing to purr, the Sphynx kitten was not warm to the touch. Sphynx are an interesting breed of cat. Due to their hairlessness, usually covered with a barely there suede coat or no coat at all, they are known for exhibiting a higher-than average body temperature. To touch a Sphynx is to run your hand over a velvet heating blanket set on medium; the coolness to Neala’s skin was disturbing. Deciding it was best to return Neala to the staff, I called a vet technician into the room and handed her back, but not before showering her wrinkled forehead with kisses. Neala peered at me with sleepy green eyes and snuggled deeper into her blanket in the technician’s arms. The woman, her hair pulled back in a disheveled ponytail and a dark stain of possibly blood on her scrub top, assured me that Neala was already a favorite at the center. Never one to shirk from attention, the Sphynx kitten had been rubbing against the bars of her small cage, crying for attention which the staff enjoyed lavishing upon her. Early the next morning, my cell phone rang and after answering it, I was informed of Neala’s successful evening post-surgery and as soon as I paid her extensive bill, I could bring her home. Hurrying to the surgical center, my heart was light. Walking through the doors, I greeted the receptionists warmly and they quickly checked me into a room to await Neala and her discharge instructions. The vet that appeared that morning was not the same surgeon from the day before. Instead, he was a younger man, less polished, but more down-to-earth. We discussed Neala’s recovery and the discharge was going accordingly when the staff delivered three cans of food to me that Neala was to be fed post-operative for the next week. As a cat owner, I have found it behooves me to be as informed about my cats’ health as possible. I had already pored over the veterinarian’s master handbook, the manual that details all surgeries, possible complications and their aftercare with my own vet before leaving for Neala’s surgery. This is why when I was handed three cans of chunky Friskies wet canned food, I was stumped. Holding the cans out toward the vet still in the room, I asked, “I thought appropriate protocol called for a slurry of food to be fed after this surgery? This is plain canned food.” The vet crinkled his brow and looked from the cans to Neala’s chart and back, “Yes, yes… A liquid diet is usually normal after care, but it seems the doctor did not annotate that in Neala’s chart as of last night.” Neala was already bundled in her carrier so I picked up her cage, paid my four thousand dollar vet bill, and went to my car. As I started the engine, I opened the carrier and placed my hand in to caress Neala. Once again, she was very cool to my touch. I talked my fears down; I had just walked out of the vet clinic doors and surely it was my own paranoia about losing her that was causing me to worry. I put my car into reverse and left the parking lot with Neala on my passenger seat in her carrier. Entering my hotel room, I shut off the air conditioner and dug through the cabinets to find a plate for Neala’s food. Following my instinct, I dumped a tablespoon of cat food on the plate and then mixed it with water until it created a runny brown slop. Unappetizing as it appeared, I was sure Neala would have an easier time eating it versus the gelatinous lump of food straight from the can. Placing the plate on the coarse carpeting, I kneeled beside my crate and waited for Neala. As soon as she approached the zippered entrance, I could feel my worries harden into fear. Something was clearly wrong. The incorrigible fighter I had left at the surgical center now had the look of a kitten that has struggled long enough and is ready to give up the fight. It is impossible to pinpoint and perhaps only those of us who have worked with animals know it, but Neala was clearly suffering. She did try to eat, though; she hurriedly swallowed a few bites of the slurry. As soon as she began to eat, her sides started contracting heavily and instead of regurgitating the food as before, Neala appeared unable to pull air into her lungs. Immediately, I pulled my phone from my pocket and quick dialed my own veterinarian in Las Vegas. Describing the situation, including the weight loss Neala clearly exhibited from the past two days as well as the struggle to breathe, my vet wasted no time in telling me to pack the kitten back up and return straight to the surgical center. I raced through the streets of Salt Lake City and tore into the parking lot. Leaving my van idling, I ran into the surgical center with Neala, declaring it was an emergency, and as the staff tore the carrier from my grasp, I believed they would open it only to find a dead kitten in the back. My heart pounded in my ears and I waited… Finally, the surgeon, instead of the vet from earlier, entered the room and asked me bluntly why I had returned with Neala. I pointed out her temperature, her weight, and her labored breathing. He countered that he felt her temperature was low, but still within normal range, that her weight loss was typical due to surgery and that he did not note labored breathing. “Perhaps it’s acid reflux from the surgery?” He suggested, his manner unconcerned. I could not contain myself any longer. I pulled out the cans of cat food still tucked securely into my purse and presented them to the surgeon, “And why was she fed this directly following surgery? Why wasn’t she on a slurry?” The surgeon regarded the canned food with a furrowed brow and shook his head in answer. Without agreeing that my concerns were valid, the surgeon suggested Neala spend another night at the surgical center for monitoring. Without prompting, he promised to ensure she was fed the appropriate diet for her condition. I signed papers and paid this new bill and returned to my hotel room. Over the next few hours, things rapidly changed for the worse… The vet called me and stated that he could clearly see Neala struggling to breathe and had decided to snap a few more radiographs to decipher the cause of her struggles. The x-ray showed a large pocket of food had now accumulated above her surgery site and was pushing into her pleural cavity. In other words, the pocket of food was now taking up space her lungs desperately needed to expand when she breathed. He suggested inserting a feeding tube directly into her stomach until the food blockage had cleared her esophagus. Due to the fact that her body temperature was continuing to fall, I agreed to wait until the following morning before putting Neala through further surgery. That night when I returned to the surgical center to visit Neala, the technician told me it was almost as though she was a different kitten. Gone was the Sphynx that wanted nothing but attention. In her place was a baby kitten that was fighting for her life. I held her for a few moments, told her how much we loved her and how much we wanted her to live, and once again left her at the surgical center. That was the last time I held Neala alive in my arms… That night, at 2 AM, I received a call from the surgical center. I stumbled from my bed in the hotel to the counter where my phone was plugged in as my heart plummeted. No one ever calls with good news in the middle of the night. As the technician informed me that Neala’s temperature had began to plummet once again, in the background, there was hectic noise and then I heard the words ‘CPR’ through the phone. The staff member’s voice went from frantic to solemn when she asked me to drive to the surgical center immediately. Neala was gone before I arrived. Her little body had finally given out. Her will to survive could not overcome her inability to breathe. My heart shattered as I held her almost weightless body wrapped in a receiving blanket to my chest. I pulled the blanket back and placed a kiss on that wrinkled, mottled face and said my goodbyes. Her loss would echo through the internet through the days to come, but for that night- it was only me and my broken heart.
Posted on: Tue, 22 Oct 2013 03:45:31 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015