So, I found myself with this 3-legged cat living in my bathroom. After diving head-first into fostering, this was neither the strangest nor least-expected thing to happen to me this year.
While the cat herself was easier than expected, her leg stump was starting to seriously concern me. I didn’t know what if anything I should be doing to care for it (clean it? bandage it? leave it alone?), and it looked to me to be open and unhappy. But, since it changed very little from when I first brought her home over the next several days, I figured it must be working as intended. Or something like that.
Seriously, that does not look comfortable
Before long, however, it started to get worse, and what I thought was “cat breath” smell I started to suspect was actually coming from the wound. Uh oh!!!
Graphic wound picture – if the amputation site looks like this, it is not good. Also, bad smell is bad news.
Consulting with the shelter, it was decided I would try to keep her from licking it and see if it got better.
Curse you, human, and your lick-blocking contraptions!
To keep her up and moving about, I also started feeding her kibble out of an interactive food dispensing ball. This worked great, except she would roll it around until it got stuck in corners or passageways where here lifesaver-bumpered head couldn’t reach. Eventually we gave up the food ball and donated it to another cat at the shelter whose current enrichment feeder was wearing out.
Before long it became evident that the licking was more likely to be a consequence of, rather than the cause of, the issues with the amputation site. So, much to everyone (except the vet)’s dismay, back to the vet clinic she went for a thorough wound-cleaning and antibiotics.
I took advantage of her absence to Macguyver her a new litterbox contraption, as she was having significant trouble using the standard-shelter-issue stainless steel pan I’d had for her before. Cardboard “waterproofed” with decorative tape? Why not? Nothing but the most attractive bathroom decorations for my precious, abscessed, 3-legged shelter snowflake.
To everyone’s frustration (except perhaps the vet’s office, since they loved “Mama Cat” and were always happy to see her), this process of leg infection, treatment, good health, then reinfection, continued through several more cycles (and several different antibiotics) before things finally settled down. Fortunately, the abscesses all seemed to be relatively superficial, but we were all still very concerned that the infection might either spread (“It’s not like there’s anything more we could cut off!” lamented the shelter director) or indicate the initial infection was worse than we’d thought (“But what if it’s been the SAME INFECTION all along?!” I moaned to my dog. He sighed indifferently.).
Along the way, Feta was graduated to the full Cone of Shame, which she had to wear for several months. She donned it quite glamorously, even if she looked kind of like a deformed art deco lamp.
Eventually, after some additional veterinary flushing and re-suturing, the amputation site looked like this – forming an ugly-but-healthy kind of barrier of dead skin, which eventually came off of its own accord. The tricky part was keeping a close eye on it to make sure no infections / abscesses returned.
What was most remarkable to me was how sweet and cooperative Feta remained through the whole recovery process. Whether it was happily slurping up her raspberry-flavored meds (mixed with wet food and canned pumpkin, to help with poo problems):
Or just continuing to be gentle and affectionate with me even as I gave her uncomfortable hot compresses and leg stretches several times a day:
Feta the Cheese Cat was just a rockstar, a true model patient. Good girl, Feta. You are awesome.
