Flopper - The Dizzy Cat

Flopper fell into our laps one cold and windy November night back in 1988, and I do mean literally fell! I was just getting ready for bed, after having tucked in both kids, when a knock came to my front door, which I found a little unusual. I live in small town in rural Saskatchewan, and unexpected late-night visits are a rarity, and front door guest are obviously not neighbors.

I opened the door to find two teen-age girls from our local high school, holding a pretty little kitten, orange, with tiger-like markings. I recognized them as farm girls from the area, and they asked if I would take a kitten that seemed to be sick. They had found him trying desperately to follow his mother and other siblings across the main highway, only a few blocks away. It was snowing and blowing, and they had seen him struggling across the road, while cars and trucks whizzed by. Although he could not walk steadily, he had been following the group across when they had come upon him.

They knew that I was a Science and Biology teacher at a school nearby, and they also knew that I had taken in many injured and abandoned pets. My house was a menagerie of many animals that I had either rescued from the wild, or had taken in as pets that others had discarded.

I checked out the kitten to find that it was completely unable to stand normally, or to walk without wobbling and falling within a few moments. I was quite sure that it had been injured, or was sick. Both girls pleaded with me to take it and care for it, as they were surely unable to take it home. A sick farm cat is a sad thing, and no one knew it better than they.

Unable to bring myself to reject the poor thing, or to force the consequences on these two young girls, I finally accepted it, and relieved them of their duty.

It was still a very young kitten, so I expected that its first need would be food. Pouring it a small bowl of warm milk, I found that it was certainly able to stand well enough to drink, although it fell into the bowl a few times and got all milky. It lapped up two helpings before it was satiated and looked up expectantly.

Gathering it up in my arms, it began to purr contentedly, and I was able to examine it more closely. It was a male cat, which I estimated to be about 3 weeks of age, as its eyes were open, and it was mobile enough to be about that old. When I placed it on the floor to try walking again, it staggered back and forth from side to side, and soon fell on its side. As it scrambled to regain its footing, I noticed that its eyes were wobbling sideways, and it could not focus on any one thing. This led me to believe that it might have an infection, possibly distemper. I decided to take him to the veterinarian the next day as a precaution, and to find out what might actually be wrong with him. He had beautiful markings and very soft Persian-like hair, and he was growing on me by the minute.

The next order of business was to set up a small litter box for him, which he immediately tested out. He was unable to stay on his feet long enough to complete his task without help, so I held him steady while he was busy. That portion of his anatomy seemed to be in fair working order at least, and he scrambled out energetically, quite satisfied with himself, it seemed.

He was now in a playful mood, and my daughter, who had woken up with the visitors, was happy to entertain herself and the kitten, despite the lateness of the hour. He seemed much more mobile on the rug than on bare floor, and could cling to the carpet to keep from falling sideways as he wobbled along. Trying to imagine what was wrong with him, it really looked like he was just drunk, or dizzy, or as I hoped, just suffering from starvation and cold.

My daughter insisted that the kitten sleep with her, so it was quickly ensconced in a little bed she made for it on her bed, and was sleeping long before she was. Knowing how quickly she became attached to all the critters I brought in, I was concerned that this kitten may not live. When dealing with small animals, the risk of death is always a concern. They are so fragile and delicate, that we are often unable to help them more than give them a peaceful death. It is a hard lesson about life, but I felt it was better to teach her to care than to ignore the pain and suffering of any animal.

The next day, we set off early for the vet’s office, which was in Humboldt, some 42 kilometers away. As she sat holding the kitten wrapped in an old baby blanket, she suddenly looked over at me and said, “Dad, you aren’t going to let the vet kill him are you? I don’t want you to let them kill him. He isn’t sick. Just listen to him purr.”

I had to admit, it seemed to be healthy in many ways, just unable to stand up right. It had eaten a big breakfast of milk and a bit of chicken I had cut up small for it. Its little tummy was bulging now, and it was sleeping contentedly as we pulled in to Humboldt. Before getting out of the van, I promised her that no matter what the veterinarian said, we wouldn’t let them put the kitten to sleep. We would bring it home and care for it the best we could.

It only took the veterinarian about 5 minutes and forty dollars to tell us that the kitten was born with a congenital inner ear malformation that left him with no balance center for his brain. I had been right, this kitten was permanently dizzy! He assured us that there didn’t seem to be any other problems with his body, but that cats born with this condition rarely live long, as they are unable to function well enough.

We left the office, I with a sense of fatalistic acceptance that I was in for some years of the burden of looking after a geriatric cat, and my daughter with an excited sense of joy that she now had her own kitten! Little did I know what a huge difference that little kitten would make in our lives, or what it would lead to.

He settled right in, as cats do, and soon appeared to have owned the place for some time. He had a distinct routine, somewhat dependant on our own, for his feedings, trips to the litter box, and subsequent baths that were necessary. These he endured with very untypical cat-like qualities, never fighting, scratching or biting, especially when being bathed, which most cats hate. He seemed to know that we were helping him, and just sat quietly meowing a bit, his eyes shaking like they were both on springs.

Growing up in what most people would call a zoo, he became accustomed to the presence and smells of many creatures that lived with us. At that time, I was teaching a lot of Biology, and just felt that you can’t teach about life without living things around. Having spent 3 years in the jungles of Papua New Guinea, I had developed a wonder and appreciation for life of all kinds, and I just couldn’t say no when any animal was brought to me to rescue.

As a result, my menagerie had grown to include, five Red-eared turtles, One Western Painted turtle, several Koi and gold fish, a rabbit, a Guinea Pig, a Pygmy Hedgehog, three Budgies, several wild birds that had grown up and flown away, and one very special Pigeon, named Charlie, which I will tell you more of later.

We had to call him Flopper, because he just flopped over all the time, making a little thump on the floor. It made you wince sometimes as he banged his head on the floor, especially going across the dining room, which he avoided. He just couldn’t get a grip on that linoleum, and we often helped him across with a lift. He was fine on the rug though, and could use his claws to pull himself up onto the arm of the sofa, so he could look outside and watch the birds. He would sit for hours peering out the window, his head wobbling and his tail and ears twitching busily.

As I said, we had three Budgies, as well as other birds at different times, and he never once bothered any of them. They all were loose in the house to fly wherever they choose, and they became quite tame, both to us and to Flopper. In fact, I have a picture of him sitting in the bathroom sink, having a bath with Charlie, who regularly flew into the tub or sink when he was having his “cat bath”. Both animals were quite content to be close to one another, and they often slept in the same basket together.

By the time he was six months old, Flopper had grown into an absolutely beautiful picture of an orange Persian cat. His Tiger stripes had attained better definition, and his hair had grown so thick and fluffy that his tail was thicker than I could reach around with two hands. When sitting majestically on his perch in the sun, he was classically perfect, and only revealed his infirmity when he moved.

Although he was a full male, he was very affectionate and unaggressive, compared to any other male cat I have ever shared a house with. You will note that I didn’t say “owned”. I don’t think anyone really ever owns an animal, especially a cat. They are normally independent creatures, who only acknowledge you when they want something. Don’t get me wrong, this doesn’t mean I love cats any less than dogs or other creatures, but one needs to appreciate how different he was from other cats.

This wasn’t to say that he wasn’t tough or able to deal with other cats. We sometimes let him outside when we were nearby, and he would sit and watch us do yard work. Even the wild birds seemed to be unafraid of him as he sat wobbling and squinting in the sun. They would get quite close as he lay on the grass near the feeder, yet he never made a move for them. Perhaps he wanted to, but he never showed any interest in them, other than when the purple martins would swoop down and peck at him during their nesting season. Then he would scramble for cover, humiliated.

In a small town, there are always a few stray cats, and more than a few “house cats”, that have been let out to prowl the neighborhood. These animals take a terrible toll on our song bird population, as they are compelled by their nature to catch the birds that gather around feeders all over every town. Unfortunately their nature also drives male cats to compete fiercely for mates, as much as if they were in the wild. Most of us have heard a cat fight in the middle of the night, but believe me, the first time you hear one you might think two demons from hell are screaming outside your house when you do.

Several times Flopper found himself under attack from one of these marauding felines, and we were always amazed at how he handled these unprovoked assaults on his peaceful domain. He usually sat along the walk in front of the house, near the door, with the driveway in front. Even though we were in the yard as well, this big black tom came hissing and spitting across the road after him one time, and he dove under my car.

The back male darted in under the other side of the car, and before you could say “Jack Sprat”, there emerged such a howling and hissing as you may have never heard in your life. Then the real fight began, and we could see from the sides that they were really into it. I ran to get a water hose to spray at them, but before I could get it going, the black cat took off back across the road limping from his hind leg.

It took us several minutes to calm him down enough to coax him out from under the car. When he finally emerged, still very much ruffled and upset, we weren’t able to find any signs of injury on him at all, not so much as a scratch, literally. The evidence under the car indicated that the other cat hadn’t faired nearly as well, as we found several big tufts of black hair, and a few drops of blood.

It seemed that when he was on his back under the car, he was just as able to defend himself as any other cat, and he was certainly big and strong enough for it. It was the first of many such scraps, but we never found any sign that he had been hurt, and aside from getting a bit oily from the bottom of the car, he was soon purring away proudly as usual.

He was also a very clean cat, even as cats go. Since he was more sedentary than most, he had even more time to groom himself, and I must admit he sometimes needed it. He still had a terrible time in the litter box, and although we had set it up so he could lean on three sides, he often fell down, and then needed a bath, which he succumbed to with sour-faced dignity.

Once he was dry and brushed nicely, a blue collar around his neck, he looked like something that should be sitting on the arm of a queen somewhere. By the time he was a year and a half old, he had reached seven kilograms, which is quite large, and he wasn’t fat by any standards. He had learned to climb at least one tree, and often sat two or three meters up in our Weeping Birch tree in the front yard surveying his territory. He never left the yard, and would sometimes meow for me to come and get him, as he struggled to get down from the tree. If I left him to his own devices, he often would tumble the last space to the ground, so I would watch out the window, and when he started down, I would meet him half way. He always seemed grateful for this, and never scratched or fought to hold his ground or start back up the tree. He always trusted me, and let me gently pluck him from the branches. I was mighty thankful for that, since I had seen what he could do to another cat, and even the odd dog foolish enough to sniff out our yard.

The following summer, we planned to holiday in the mountains of Alberta, and being away for a week meant that we had to farm out most of our animal chores to the neighbors, and some students willing to come and feed the fish and turtles etc. Flopper was another matter however, as he couldn’t be easily left alone for a few days, as other cats might be. He often fell in his water dish or litter box, and we needed a cat sitter.

My mother and father were then living in the small community of Hague, Sask. Hague is a farming town, some 40 kilometers North of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. It was settled by a strong Mennonite community at the turn of the century, and still has a strong Mennonite flavor and tradition today. They knew Flopper from their visits to our home in Watson, and volunteered to take him for the week we were to be away. He was such a gentle cat that they weren’t worried about him catching any of the many song birds that frequented their feeders around the yard. Dad had turned into quite a bird watcher over the years, and had enjoyed watching a mother Robin building a nest right on their kitchen window ledge, despite their efforts to encourage her to build elsewhere. The whole process had taken up two months of their lives watching the family, and he had even forgone his beloved “The Price is Right”, to watch them hatching one morning.

So, on our way through to Alberta, we dropped off Flopper in their care and headed off for a week of fun in the mountains. We all had a grand time, and took some great photos of the trip that we will treasure.

Tired, and a little dirty from camping and travelling for a week, we stopped in Hague to pick up Flopper on the way home. The kids burst from the van in relief, and my daughter immediately asked Mom where Flopper was. As I came up the walk to the door, I could tell from Mom’s face that something was wrong, and I just had a sick feeling. I knew that look, and it wasn’t good.

After tearful hugs and a welcome, mom told us that Flopper was missing, and had been gone for two days or more.

Without hearing more, my daughter tore out the door and began calling for him up and down the street. She was sobbing and calling, and I just didn’t know what to do next. A lost cat could be anywhere, but I just couldn’t believe that he would go too far, especially with mom watching out after him so carefully. You really would have to know mom to understand that I really mean she was looking out for him. My mom is the most dependable person in the world, and if she said she would look after him, I knew she would. Something wasn’t right.

As both kids searched the town, which isn’t that big, mom called me into the living room. There, she tearfully explained what had really happened to poor Flopper.

Two days before, she had given him a nice bath after he had fallen in some mud outside, and when he was dry, she let him out onto the lawn beside their house. He had a new Pink collar on, and she had added a little bell, just in case he should get ideas with all the birds flying around him. She could see him in her Kitchen window as she made supper, and he was just luxuriating in the summer sun, his head wobbling as usual.

Dad was lying down on the couch having a snooze that afternoon, and mom had gone to the laundry area to wash some clothes for a few minutes, when they were startled by the crack of a rifle shot. Dad had spent 2 years in the front lines during World War II, and he knew the sound of gun fire. He was off that couch and on the step in about four seconds, nearly bumping into mom rushing to the door at the same time.

There, standing proudly with his still smoking rifle, was the town foreman, and two old Mennonite ladies from down the street. As Mom ran from the house almost in hysterics, he was about to gather up the body and throw it into his truck. Dad had also run out in his socks, and now stood blinking, trying to figure out why they had shot the cat.

It seems the two old ladies had been coming back from the post office that afternoon and spotted Flopper sitting on the lawn. They noticed that his head was wobbling, and they had decided that “That cat is sick!”, and had immediately called the town office. The office had notified the town foreman, who had promptly showed up with his 22, and shot the cat right in the yard, pink collar, bell and all!

Dad was the Mayor of Hague at the time, chosen for the second term, as he had been seen as an impartial outsider to their community issues. Mom and Dad had moved to Hague after dad accepted the position as Post Master there, and he was a quiet man, but he had commanded men in battle, and never backed down from anything important.

The town foreman was told in no uncertain terms what a fool he was, and that if the Mayor had his way, he would be looking for a new job tomorrow. He was also reminded of a provincial ordinance against the discharge of firearms within the town limits of any community, and that he and his neighbors may feel it necessary to call the R.C.M.P. regarding the incident.

By this time, several neighbors and some passers-by had gathered around the scene, and mom and dad were loath to carry on the debate in public. Everyone was sympathetic, especially when they saw that it had worn a collar and little bell, but some questioned why we had a cat like that.

Regardless of the reasons, the deed was done, and couldn’t be undone. Mom and dad gathered up his body and took him to the garden for burial under the crab apple tree. It was a sunny spot, with lots of bird traffic.

The town foreman apologized profusely for his error before he drove away, but the two old ladies never said anything, ever again to mom, and she lived on that street for the next 25 years.

As mayor, dad was able to pass a town ordinance against the destruction of licensed pets, and a law requiring all cat and dog owners to register their pets, and wear a tag to prove it. This wouldn’t have helped Flopper however, as he was wearing a tag, unfortunately it was from Watson!

We decided not to tell the kids what had happened right away, as they were both in such a state of sadness over the loss of the cat already. There was nothing we could do to help Flopper, but perhaps we could soften the blow until they were old enough to hear the truth.

It took me many years to finally tell them what had happened to him. As I expected, my daughter mourned again for him, and cried out in rage at what they had done to a poor defenseless animal that had never hurt anything, let alone a person. We have been back to Hague many times since, but she never fails to mention Flopper, and what happened there. I’m glad she doesn’t know who the people involved were, as I know she is just fiery and determined enough to go over to their house and really give them the piece of her mind that she couldn’t have given when she was a child.

Since then, I have rescued a number of animals, both from the wild, and irresponsible pet owners. There really is an incredible lack of empathy for animals and their plight in dealing with mankind. People just don't seem to understand that animals have many of the same emotions and abilities as people, and it really is a crime how we treat them. I suppose some day in the future, people will equate our treatment of animals to how we treated slaves in the last century, and how we continue to treat the millions of homeless children everywhere.

Now that you've heard about Flopper, maybe you would like to hear about Charlie, a Pigeon that really loved to ride around on my car roof. If you do, check out the story under the title, "Charlie - The Pigeon that Loved Car Rides", here at Writing.com. Perhaps your heart will soften even a little more, and you'll be kinder to animals, and children both.

Doctor Bob