Born Again Cat

It began with an internet romance. A co-worker had just gotten a new dog from the humane society. I was pet free.
"What does your new pet look like?" I asked.
"You can see a picture of him on the humane society's web page. He's featured as adoptee of the month."
Next to the picture of the month's adoptee was a link to the pet of the month, a dog or cat that was featured for adoption. One click and I was hooked.

The most beautiful long haired, white and black cat I'd ever seen stared at me with green eyes bigger than her head. I had to have that cat.
Mind you, I am not a "cat person." My parents bred and showed boxer dogs. As a toddler I spent many companionable hours with Squire, the show dog, lounging around the back yard kennel, sharing a bowl of kibble. Later we had an obese dachshund called Sally Lump-lump (her crooked tail was victim of an unfortunate screen door accident) and a mutt named Lucille. As an adult I became unaccountably fond of guinea pigs. But I never had or wanted a cat.
Still, this cat, named Freedom, was different with her elusive beauty. I emailed the humane society and asked if I could have her.
The director responded I would need a letter of recommendation from my veterinarian. I complied and asked if I could visit the animal. The director asked for a complete history of pet ownership. I complied and asked if I could visit the animal. The director asked for a personal recommendation from a cat-owning friend.
I complied, but countered I felt like I was adopting a Chinese baby, not a cat, given the amount of information I had to supply before I could visit her. Please, I asked, couldn't my cat-owning friend and I come to the shelter to visit Freedom face to fuzzy face?
One Saturday my friend Karin and I arrived at the shelter. One step through the door reminded me why I was not a cat owner. The air was redolent of musky cat and my ears were assaulted by high-pitched miaows. The small back room was stacked with tiny wire enclosures, one on top of the other, like prison cells. There, level to my eyes, crammed into a little cage, was the ironically named Freedom. Our eyes locked. She was miserable. She was desperate. She was beautiful. And she was covered with open, weeping, bloody sores.
"We think it's scabies," said the director defensively. "We were hoping for improvement before you met her. She sees the vet again this week. Of course, we can't let her be adopted until she's fully recovered."
"Send her to the vet," I said. "I'll be back next weekend to pick her up."
"If the new medications take effect, you can have her."
The following week I added one percent to the gross national product buying organic cat food, cat dishes, a litter box and litter, cat beds, cat treats, cat toys, cat trees and a cat travel carrier. I pored over baby books, choosing the elegant and orginal name, Chloe, which I later learned from Google is the most common name for a female cat. Saturday I drove to the shelter with the cat carrier, a twenty-pound kibble donation and a fifty dollar adoption fee.
"I'm sorry," the director said. "Freedom's not responding to the medication. We can't take the responsibility of giving you a sick animal." She added, "I feel really terrible about this. It's clear she doesn't like other cats. These close quarters are torture for her. After you visited, she really perked up. And although I want all our cats to be adopted, there are some I really care for. Freedom is a special animal. I don't want her to be put down."
"I consulted with my vet," I responded. "She helped me write a document saying I take all responsiblity for Freedom's pre-existing condition. I've made an appointement for her to see my vet, even before I take her home."
I felt like I was driving the get-away car for a jail break as Chloe and I sped to the vet's office. She took one look at this trembling ball of bloody fur and said, "I don't know what this is, but it isn't scabies. We can see if it heals on its own with good nutrition and a stress-free life or we can try some antibiotic sprays and ointments."
"In for a penny, in for a pound," I thought. "What the hell, let's try the meds."
Chloe and I headed for home. When we arrived, I took Chloe to the second floor where I had set up the litter box in the bathroom and a feeding station by the study. I opened the carrier, letting Chloe find her own way out and went downstairs to put the medications away.
I came back upstairs to find Chloe had disappeared. She hadn't come downstairs. The closet doors were closed. I checked under the chairs and the desk. No cat. How did that happen? I was overcome with guilt. Somehow she had gotten out of the house. She must have run away.
The only place I hadn't looked was under the bed. I lay on my stomach and peered beneath the dust ruffle. No cat, but there was a suspicious bulge in the box spring. As I stared, prone, at the swelling, a furry leg emerged, followed by a head with big green eyes. Chloe came to the edge of the box spring and stared into my eyes. She blinked. I blinked. She licked my nose. Chloe had been reborn.