Talk about a stroke of luck

Must be her tummy, I thought. She’s been battling for a couple of days. She’s just dehydrated. But the vet told us differently and, just like that, our lives changed.

Back home we start making plans: she needs little wheels to drag those lame hind legs around. Son’s on it. Daughter religiously injects water into her mouth little bits at a time, every 20 minutes. She gets carried to her sunny spot outside. Putting her to sleep is not an option; she’s a fighter, the kids all tell me – but I despaired.

Beloved’s brother had a stroke hardly a month ago. A week in ICU and he was dead. We couldn’t even give him a decent burial because of the lockdown. A service was streamed from some Catholic church some Sunday, but I missed it. I don’t even know what happened to his ashes.

A stroke even took Beloved’s father just before that ’95 Rugby World Cup final. In a couple of days, he went from a lame little right hand and a big smile but no speech, to a deep sleep he never woke up from. Him I could bury, at least. But that’s the point of strokes: they’re life-changing; not only for the victims.

I remember making Dad flash cards to tell me if he was hungry, cold, thirsty. He never used them. Maybe he knew death was waiting. I didn’t. So, I despaired about Tinky. It’s just a matter of time, I thought.

But how wrong I was: within a day she started straightening up. Two days later her hind legs were working; her tail was up. She stormed into the kitchen when she heard the tin being opened to be fed with the other cats. Don’t get me wrong, she’s still wobbly – but back to the bitchy diva, giving the dogs hell.

The vet is not surprised. “Cats can recover quickly. Didn’t I mention that?” No. But I’ll take it Tinky now has only eight lives. And humans? Why is it so devastating to us, doctor? Are you researching strokes in cats to see the how and the what of their miraculous recovery? Because we only have one life.

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