Meet Butterscotch: a cat in serious need of help

Alyssa Landau
Columnist, The Friday Flyer

I remember the day very clearly. I had just gotten home from a long day of school, followed by a gruesome workout at the gym. I was eating dinner like normal at the dinner table. Butterscotch, or Butter for short, my beautiful Flame Point Siamese, was sitting delicately on the top of the couch – her normal spot.

However, being that this was her favorite spot, just like siblings, my black cat Forrest decided that this spot was now his favorite. The sound of his feet galloping against the wood floor echoed around the house and I perked up my head to see his crazy roundabout when he jumped onto the couch and started swatting his paws at Butter. He wanted “the spot.”

I, of course, being the parent of both of them, slapped my hands together, raised my voice and told Forrest to “quit being a jerk,” and surprisingly he stopped. I went about my normal business, finishing dinner, when I heard that unmistakable gallop again. But this time it was different. It carried a ghastly note, a more foreboding warning than a normally gleeful display of excitement.

I raised my head and saw Forrest jump up on the couch yet again and swat Butter, this time clear off the couch. I watched her 13-year-old body fall against the wood floor, against her right leg. She began howling, the most horrible sound you can imagine.

My whole body tensed. A hot sweat rampaged through my body. I didn’t know what to do. I knew I had to do something, so I ran towards her.

It was immediately apparent to me that she had broken her leg – or more so in my mind –Forrest had broken her leg. I slapped my hands again and scared Forrest away. Seemingly apologetic, he sprinted away in a hasty retreat.

I turned back towards Butter. I was frozen with fear. My hands began trembling, my muscles ached and my heart very well could have galloped away by itself. She kept howling and then a long yowl, which is a more drawn-out moan that denotes distress.

I at first tried to pet her, giving her my most apologetic and warm voice, but she was in such pain she kept trying to pull herself away from me and began hissing when I tried to touch her. I didn’t blame her or take it personally because I knew she was in pain. I wouldn’t want anyone touching my broken leg either. But that was where the problem was.

If her leg was broken, which I knew it was, I would have to pick her up and put her in a crate and rush her to the vet. I hurried to my phone to search the internet for how to pick up a cat the best way possible without causing harm or pain to the injured appendage. I was most concerned about lifting her up and making it worse.

Upon finding nothing that helped – only an article that said how to splint a leg – I knew she wouldn’t even let me near her leg, so that was out of the question. The fact that she was hissing at my mere presence hinted to that fact. With no other choice, I rushed to the keypad on my phone and called my mother, who instantly said to take her to the vet.

This resulted in an upset back and forth about how I didn’t want to hurt her. We decided that when she got home (she was 10 minutes away) we would work together to get her into a crate.

However, while I was waiting, merely sitting next to Butter and giving her treats, which she was surprisingly scarfing down like she was starving to death, she began moving. Being that it was her back right leg, she began dragging herself away from me and into my room, straight under my bed, which was the worst possible place for her to go.

It was almost impossible to get her out from under the bed. I figured she knew that, which was why she picked such a spot.

Finally my mom got home and I rushed towards her in a hug, crying about how Butter had escaped under the bed and how on earth were we going to get her out of there and into the vet office. I would’ve never have guessed that this was only the beginning.

To be continued . . .