How did this happen?

   How did this happen? That’s all I could think as I frantically paged through the phone book looking for the emergency number. My fingers shook as I tried to punch out the numbers. Beep, beep, the stupid cordless phone died. As I raced down the hallway, I repeated the numbers trying to remember as a stab my fingers on the wall-mounted landline, “Five – four-six-nine.”

    As I waited for the phone system options, I continued to silently scream, “How?” 

    It was an ordinary dinner, followed by the newspaper while I listened for the weather on the radio. Slinky and Miss America chowed down their food packet with their usual gusto. As I started on the dishes, I heard a little cough followed by that unmistakable sound.

    “That had better not be on the newspaper,” I hollered down the hallway. I dried my hands and went to investigate.

    It is inevitable as all pet owners know, vomit is part of life. It could be a meal eaten too fast, not happy with the food, something else ingested or the most common cause in my world, a hairball. Cats with hair puked up hairballs. This usually happened at inconvenient times, frequently in inconvenient locations and always on something expensive or important.

    Fortunately, as a long-time pet owner, my accident problems were pretty much location issues. Nothing is guaranteed to wake you up faster at night than stepping on something wet and squishy in the dark when you are making a run to the bathroom.

     I found them in the hallway – hairballs. I cleaned up the two puddles muttering over the loss of pricy cat food swimming in the sloppy mess.

    Miss America did not look too concerned about my usual litany of complaints and threats offering to shave her long gray locks and hair tufts. I found her crouched in the living room looking at me with foam dripping out of her mouth. While I stood watching ,she coughed again trying to vomit up more material.

    I picked up the phone on the end table and dialed my mother’s house. “Could you come up here?” I asked without preamble. “Something is wrong with Miss America. I need to figure out if she ate something she shouldn’t have.”

    My mom was a trooper, no wasted questions in a crisis. “OK, I’m on my way.” She lived a half mile away and checked in on my household when I traveled out of town. Normally she can talk the hind leg off a donkey but tonight she was on track.

    Looking at Miss America again, I saw the situation had not improved, a little more liquid on the floor and she was still trying to heave something up. But now I heard wheezing and she was struggling to breathe. The emergency center said I can bring her in.

    As I fished the cat carrier out of the closet and placed a fluffy towel in it, my mother arrived and looked around for evidence of the possible cause for this distress. Plant leaves, half-eaten mice, a plastic bag, nothing was an obvious source of the problem. Unlike Clyde, one of my previous cats, who was a pill freak and would eat anything dropped on the floor, Miss America had earned her name with prima donna attitude about everything from special food to appropriate activities like posing on a pillow and wearing a sash.

    I scooped up the distressed kitty and carefully placed her in the carrier. I tried to steady my voice and tell her it will be alright. How can I think that, it looked so terrible!

    My mom shut the car door and I peeled out of the yard in a shower of gravel, the dirt contrail following us down the road. Driving left-handed, I kept my right hand with the fingers poking through the carrier’s wire door.

    During the glances from the road, her amber colored eyes burned into mine seeming to scream “Help me!” with each thud of my heartbeat.

    It was only seven miles from my house to the emergency vet center but it passed by in slow motion even as I pressed my foot further to the floor. As the car screamed around the corner, we swerved into the first parking spot in the parking lot.

    I raced around the car to pry the carrier off the seat.

    “It’s OK. It’s going to be OK, honey.” I kept saying this as a mantra to reassure Miss America as well as myself.

    The doors have to be opened from the desk, I leaned on the buzzer. When I sprinted forward, a receptionist asked with a smile, “How can I help you?”

    “I called. I have a cat with distressed breathing after throwing up a hairball.” I hear rasping sounds coming from the carrier, “Can we be seen?”

    “Has she been a client here before?”

    This is an emergency center. I would hope most animals are not regular clients for crying out loud!

    “No, this is our first trip,” I ground out.

    “Well, fill out this paperwork and someone will be out to see her.” She handed me a clipboard covered with papers and a pen hanging on a string.

     “Can’t she be seen while I fill these out?” I asked looking in horror at all of the pages. The receptionist just pointed to the clipboard and turned to the next client entering the door.   

    I raced through the paperwork, watching my baby and listening to each struggling breath. More families entered the center and undergo the same routine. I attracted the attention of the receptionist to return the clipboard, she gave it a cursory glance making sure the payment section is filled out and tells me to take a seat.

    Before I move, the door behind the reception desk opens and a technician in green scrubs comes out. She reviewed the clipboards on the counter and the receptionist says, “The dog at the end should be first.”

    Damn, not us. I looked at Miss America reassuringly. She struggled through another breath. This would be so much easier if she was covered in blood and you could see the wound.

    The green bedecked official gives my carrier a penetrating look. “What’s the problem?”

    “Vomited two hairballs and now is struggling to breathe. She still seems to want to retch up another one.” I looked at my watch, “It has been 40 minutes since the first cough.”

     She looked at Miss America, her mouth dripping with froth, and picked up the carrier. “Have a seat,” was all she said as she disappeared back through the doorway.

    So I sat and frantically prayed they would be able to do something. My legs, feet and hands fidgeted, twitching as if moving to some unheard rhythm. The wall mounted flat screen TV droned in the corner attempting to provide a distraction but failing to hold anyone’s interest.

    I watched the traffic of disasters that continues to buzz through the doors. Hoping nothing huge will distract from Miss America’s care. Dog bite, labor problems, dehydration; we all sat and waited to be called into the exam room to hear the good news and the bad.

   “Mrs. Burton?” My head swiveled around to laser look onto someone with news, as they stood in the open doorway.

   “Yes.” I stood and started forward and walked into the room of gleaming tiles and cold, shiny stainless steel.

    “Dr. Henchelle will be with you in a minute to give you a report on Miss America. I can tell you that she is resting comfortably in an oxygen chamber right now,” the technician reported. 

    I actually glanced at her name tag, Samantha it read. 

    “Thank you, Samantha.” I waited with dire thoughts continuing to race through my brain. 

    Another frantic car ride. This time we both are exhausted and have further to travel. Miss America crouched in her carrier staring at me as I tried to reassure her. “Everything will be fine. This other doctor will figure out what happened, and you will be back with Slinky, ruling the roost.”

    My fingers continued to try and stroke some part of her, hoping the contact will comfort and support my positive voice tone. I watched the clock and pushed the pedal to click off the miles.

    Dr. Henchelle’s assessment last night was inconclusive. But she agreed Miss America was distressed and the oxygen therapy seemed to calm her. The emergency center closed at 8:00 a.m. each day. All animals removed to alternate locations or returned home.

    When confronted by my fuzzy-faced friend after a few hours of fitful sleep, I was unable to brush off the sense of doom. The option of a more advanced veterinary center was voiced as a way to answer my questions.

   Calling from the parking lot before I removed my cat from her oxygen-enhanced space, I tracked down someone who would be able to get a clearer picture of our reality. But it was fifty excruciating miles away.

    I called work and asked for a personal day. I notified my colleague of a need to reschedule our web call. Then I called home to update my mother, while disappointed I had no new information, she wished me well on our quest. 

    We were off.

    Shaking, I carried Miss America into the animal hospital. Her carrier and the file from last night was whisked away when we got to the counter and I said our names. Meanwhile, I was inundated with forms attached to a clipboard asking for everything from my address and credit card to the last time she pooped. I agreed to a charge to pay for the consultation.

    Finally released from the paperwork jungle, I crept to a chair where I could see the hallway and doors with cat logos and numbers. Between glancing at the wall clock and the visible doors, my mind raced through possibilities. She was only just two years old. A healthy kitty I rescued she was part of my family. The occasional tear leaked down my cheeks as the second hand ticked around the clock face. The phone rang almost continually at the staff desk but only one other animal was brought in. A towel with red splotches clutched around the dog but a gray-haired man. The staff deftly directed him immediately into an exam room.

    The door in the middle opened and a woman in lavender scrubs called, “Miss America”. I shot out of the chair and into the room. Another gleaming tiles and stainless-steel mausoleum. The tan carrier stood on the exam table. The gray occupant on the bright pink towel looked out at me with defeated eyes.

    “Dr. Sinclair will be with you in just a moment.” The perky voice left the room with a flash of color and a soft click of the door. I opened the carrier and placed my hand inside to stroke the side of her face. Her eyes closed as she leaned into my fingers.

   The door whooshed open with a rush of air. A competent-looking man in a lab coat introduced himself and held up an x-ray. My stressed sleep-deprived brain struggled to take in the information. While he could see the current blockage in her throat, he was unsure if something else was wrong.

    I tried to answer his questions but was clueless about most of them. He seemed accusatory about Miss America being dehydrated since the problem was less than twenty-four hours old. The option presented was drastic and not guaranteed of success. I looked into the golden eyes currently laying on the exam table altar, tears leaking and agreed. I signed the papers recognizing the risks and absolving them of any responsibility.

    “She will need an I.V. for a few hours before we will be able to perform the procedure.” He stood up and closed the folder of papers. “After you pay the front desk, we will get started. Let them know how to notify you.”

    Miss America rested in her new cage, a wire-frame dog crate on the dining room table with a soft blanket and a kitty box in it. She is decked out in the latest fashion, a net t-shirt covering her naked belly and holding her feeding tube close to her stomach. Her fluffy tail looked out of place against severity of her hair cut. A long almost solid hairball is displayed on the bookshelf nearby. That was all that almost killed her. No cancer, no other injury. She now endured the repeated daily feedings, medicine and care which allowed her to live.

   As I walked into the room, I noticed her posed on her blanket as she surveyed her dominion.