I love our cats. They are wonderfully sweet and often cuddly. It’s a wonderful feeling when one of them curls up on my lap or next to me in bed, warm and snuggly. Unfortunately, all that time we spent away from home over the last couple months was stressful for them, too, and they started fighting with each other. We kept them separated for the last couple weeks of the musical, but after a week of back-to-normal for us, I waited to see what would happen when they managed to get on the same side of the door Friday morning. At first it seemed like they might be OK, but then Phoebe, ever the aggressor, started hissing and growling at Tybalt. I distracted Phoebe and got her to turn away, then picked her up to put her in the bedroom. Before I could even get a decent grip, she went ballistic, hissing, spitting, flailing and growling. The scene as I tried to control her would probably be a great slapstick comedy. Meanwhile, her antics sent Tybalt into a frenzy; he jumped up and bit my legs. (The vet said later that when they get worked up like that, they don’t think, they just attack.) I dropped Phoebe, but not before she managed to scratch my arm. They tangled with each other, growling and snarling all the way to the bedroom, while I limped after them, bleeding from three limbs.

I picked up a towel and finally managed to separate them, but I think by that point I was in shock. The whole episode lasted maybe five minutes, but it felt like a terrifying eternity. They really wanted to kill each other, it seemed, and since I had the misfortune of being in the middle, they wanted to destroy me, too. I have had pet cats my entire life and never experienced anything so violent. The emotional trauma seemed worse than the physical; I couldn’t believe Tybalt - my baby - had bitten me like that.

The commotion had woken Christian, and he could see how shaken I was. He helped clean and dress my wounds, and insisted on calling his father (the doctor), despite my protestations. Our cats spend their lives indoors and they’re healthy - I didn’t think there was any more danger than any other household minor injury. I later had to tell my husband “you were right; I was wrong.” I repeated it just to drive home the point for myself.

On my father-in-law’s advice, I saw my PCP a few hours later. I learned cat bites are puncture wounds, often quite deep, which makes them more dangerous than the average dog bite. The worst wounds are on my right calf, where it looks like Tybalt buried his long, thin teeth all the way to the gums. I had to have a tetanus shot, so I had bandages on all four limbs now. She also ordered me to have the antibiotic prescription filled and take the first dose before going back to work. She warned me to go straight to the ER if we noticed any redness, swelling, or drainage, because 80% of cat bites become infected even with treatment, and I might need IV antibiotics. She also had me schedule a follow-up visit for Wednesday to check on the healing progress. I went back to work that afternoon, but the pain got worse as the day progressed. When we changed the dressing that evening, we thought we saw all three warning signs of infection, so off to the ER we went. By the time we got there, I couldn’t even stand. The ER doc said it was premature to do any additional treatment, but he at least gave me painkillers. It only takes the edge off, though.

We had already planned to spend a couple nights at a bed and breakfast for our first anniversary, and my PCP said we didn’t need to cancel our trip. We left Sunday night. I limped my way through visiting historic sites and quaint little shops on Monday; that night when we changed the dressing again, we were pretty sure it was infected, so we also paid a visit to the St. Genevieve ER. It wasn’t exactly how we’d planned to spend the first anniversary of our wedding night, but we were right to go. This doctor gave me a prescription for a second antibiotic, to take in addition to the original. But at least she didn’t think I needed an IV yet. Tuesday we visited a couple wineries and the Crown Valley Tiger Sanctuary. It was a great day, but my limp continued to get worse. As we started on our way home to St. Louis, I noticed my right foot and ankle had swollen to about twice the size of my left. It didn’t hurt, but was rather disconcerting. Rather than yet another $50 ER co-pay, we drove straight to Christian’s parents’ house as soon as we got back in town. Dr. Cosas told me to stay home from work on Wednesday and keep the leg elevated. He also gave me a cane and told me to use a heating pad to help stimulate the immune system in the area of the worst bite. Since I already had the follow-up appointment scheduled for the next day, he said to just keep an eye on the wounds until then.

So this afternoon we went back to my doctor’s office. But my doctor is on vacation this week, so I saw a different doctor - the fifth in six days. He measured the redness and told me to keep doing what I was doing, including staying home from work and elevating the leg tomorrow. I have to go back to see him late tomorrow afternoon, too, to see whether anything has changed. Hopefully by then we’ll also have the results of the culture they did in St. Genevieve. Tomorrow he’ll decide whether I need to have IV antibiotics or possibly have the punctures cut open. I don’t like either option. But I do want to be done with this. I had no idea a cat bite - especially from a healthy indoor pet - could be so serious. It hurts, it’s inconvenient, and it’s terribly frustrating to just lay on the couch all day. And while I kind of enjoy being waited on hand and foot, I feel sorry for Christian. He has to do almost everything for me, and on top of that, he’s constantly worried about me. I still love our cats, and they have been very sweet individually. Tybalt spent almost the entire day with me today. But I think we’ll be very careful when we try to reintroduce them, and even if they haven’t started fighting yet, I’ll get some protection before trying to split them up again.