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Bumper
Mr Mouse was resting on the kitchen table, waiting to be filled with the overflow toys from the kitty stocking. I found a surprise when I went to fill him! An even bigger surprise than having Bumpers head pop out of Mr Mouse, is having Bumper alive and well to enjoy the holidays with us.
When I first saw the aberration of fur and bones, covered in blood, bobbing its head in my birdbath, I thought for sure that the poor critter would not live another day, never mind another year. I went out into my yard to see if I could help.
A terrified fuzz-muffin stumbled away as fast as he could to escape me, bumping into everything in his path as he made his awkward getaway. My heart ached, but I didn't dare approach him again after I watched him crawl into my shed. At least he'd be warm and sheltered there, with soft mounds of straw to rest in.
Toward evening, I ventured to slip some fresh food and water into the shed with as much stealth as I could muster. I spied a pile of fluff nestled in the straw, not sure if he was alive or not, I left the offerings and closed the door silently.
The next morning I returned with breakfast, expecting to find that my latest orphan had passed. Quietly opening the shed door, I saw last nights can of 9-Lives smeared all over the floor, and the water dish cloudy with clumps of food. The lump of fur was in a different location. I quickly exchanged bowls and left with the tiniest glimmer of hope.
This routine continued for a few days. The shed looked like it'd suffered a major food fight, a 9-Lives rainbow of flavors splattered and smeared on every available surface. An encouraging sign I thought. Fortunately, the cold of the winter prevented flies from adding to the mix. The 'why?' of this new interior decoration remained a mystery to me, however, as I'd yet to get more than a fleeting glimpse of the sleeping artist.
Then one morning when I arrived with breakfast, I saw the fur-guy determinedly digging at the straw. He didn't notice me as I replaced the dishes. I decided to chance a quiet 'kitty-kitty', and was surprised when there was no response. I tried again, and again, with increasing volume. No response. With myself outside the shed, the door opened only a crack, I tried rapping my knuckle on the floor. That did it. He turned and saw me, jumped and ran into the wall. I closed the door and ran back to the house, hoping that the bumper boy would forgive the intrusion.
He did. As the winter progressed Bumper began to range up to the back porch looking for more food. I realized that he was missing an eye, could not open his mouth more than a tongue space - explaining the smeared food. Even though it passed eventually, his temporary deafness probably helped to save his life.
My concerns for Bumper deepened as springtime approached. The open eye socket, and a face smeared with food much of the time, was bound to draw flies. I still didn't know the extent of his damages, but thought he was strong enough to handle an investigation. Bumper was showing no signs of wanting to be tame though, so I had to trap him for a dreaded trip to the vet. He was such a pitiful sight that I feared they wouldn't want to fix him up.
My fears were fed by the look on the vets face as she eyed him, hunkered down in a twisted ball at the back of the carrier. When I made the appointment for Bumper I'd told them that he was feral, and I reminded the doc when we arrived. I said I didn't think it'd be a good idea to take him out of the carrier, but she insisted. The vet told me later that, on gross inspection, despite my words, that she thought she was looking at a near death cat.
Appearances can be misleading. Within 15 seconds, Bumper removed all wall hangings, sent the carrier airborne, and cleared the exam room counter except for the refrigerator, which was teetering on the edge as he tried to hide behind it. He was strong enough. For different reasons, the hospital folks thought I'd named him appropriately.
In any case, Bumper's display of blazing energy earned him the right for yet another chance. He was admitted to be sedated, examined and neutered. That part went well, but repairing the rest of him was beyond the capabilities of the staff vets, who were guessing that he was at least 14 yrs old, and thought I still might want to let him go. No broken-to-bits kitty who survived a harsh winter in a shed and came out to move a refrigerator was ready to go, in my opinion, so I booked Bumps an appointment to see their Board Certified Surgeon who would be making the rounds the next week.
Two fancy surgeries later, all was repaired but Bumper's jaw. It just couldn't be made right. He didn't seem to care about that at all though, and spent the next few months in my bathroom, drinking up pureed 9-Lives and splattering it with abandon when sneezing and shaking to get rid of the excess which was pushed into his nose as he guzzled.
My other cats seemed quite mystified by the odd behavior of the new creature, as they watched him intently through the screen door. Eventually, Bumper would go to the screen and 'bump' it to say hello to them, and one day I just left it open after morning wipe-up.
Like my other feral, Sadie, Bumper became fast friends with his own kind, and races around and plays with his brother and sisters like he wasn't a day over two. Occasionally, Bumper will make an expansive gesture to his Mama purson by chasing after a string if she drags it along the floor, but otherwise I'm here only to serve, never touch.
So there he was, napping in Mr Mouse, Sadie stretched out on the other side, and Seamus sitting at the right, popping up to see if another meal had arrived, like a normal ordinary house-cat who never had a thing go wrong.
For Bumper, life is good. For me, it's nothing short of little daily miracles.
Bobbi, Mass.
