The Special Visitor

Since last November, once a day, almost every day, morning, noon or night, a special visitor rings my doorbell.

The stage is always set for her arrival. The kitchen and bathroom lights are on, the bathroom door wide open, the shower curtain fully extended along the length of the tub, which must be completely dry.

As I ascend the steps to greet the visitor I repeat in an affected, cheery voice (think of Mrs Poole, Valerie’s neighbor): “Look who’s here. It’s Bambi. Bambi’s here.”

Most of the time this announcement produces the desired effect. Cubby Duccio runs from wherever he may be esconced into the bathtub to hide behind the curtain.

Sometimes the stage is not set quite right, for reasons only the patient understands, and he may hide under the furniture or run around in circles, making fools of us, until Bambi gets him into position to run into the bathroom on his own.

I named him Cubby because he is my littlest and youngest cat; Duccio because I wanted to give him an Italian name and Duccio is one of my favorite painters.

Cubby Duccio has end-stage kidney failure.

Until the beginning of November, Bambi used to give him daily fluids in two-week cycles, and we kept him in the bathroom for the entire period. Although my bathroom is large, clean and comfy, with a big, gated window facing the courtyard, being confined was a sacrifice for such a sociable cat.

I put the stereo/radio Meli had given me as a gift when I moved back to Rome 12 years ago in the bathroom and left it playing soft music to keep Cubby Duccio company at night, when the chatter of neighbors’ voices had disappeared from the courtyard. None of the other cats was happy to spend part of the day locked in with him, although I tried. Usually after the two-week therapy he would be well for 6 to 8 weeks. Then we would start another cycle.

When he was confined to the bathroom, if he was perched high on the windowsill Bambi would stand on the ledge of the tub to give him his therapy. If he felt protected inside his carrier on the floor, she would kneel down and reach her long arms in to inject the fluid.

Cubby D is very affectionate and bears me no ill will. When we let him loose after those two weeks in the bathroom, he always came to me to be cuddled and slept with me for part of the night. He still does.

After those last two weeks of therapy in the bathroom, he went downhill rapidly. His eyes became bigger and rounder, he lost weight, and his back had a pronounced arch.

The sonogram vet delivered the end-stage diagnosis. He gave me the option of checking him into the animal hospital for two or three days of continuous intravenous fluids to see whether this would help or the option this particular vet prefers never to put into words.

The vet in charge of recoveries at the animal hospital kept him five full days but charged me for four. The results of the blood sample drawn the fifth day were considerably better than those of the sample drawn the first day, but they were still off the charts. When the vet discharged him late Sunday afternoon, Cubby Duccio was peppy, but we didn’t know how he would respond once I brought him home. She feared the worst and gave me a prescription for a feline-strength anabolic steroid just in case.

I purchased it but, being a sports fan, I never wanted to give it to him because I know its effect on athletes. In any case, he was happy to be home and has had a good appetite.

A Spanish neighbor, Amparo, cat lover and biology professor, has since told me that one injection of that steroid can kill a cat in just a few weeks.

At that point Bambi started coming every day and, fortunately, most of the time Cubby Duccio runs into the bathroom on his own without drama. Bambi’s ministrations take no more than two minutes and when she has finished he runs out again.

He receives Ringer solution, soluble vitamins and a small dose of a gastro protector for the ulcerous gastritis associated with his condition. Once a week we add one-third of a phial of a homeopathic preparation traditional vets have never heard of.

Bambi is in her late thirties, tall, serious, with a mass of long dark hair and a pair of glasses on her nose. Her thin, wiry frame is hidden under baggy, comfortable work clothes. She has a degree in biology and wanted to be a vet but lacked the means to continue studying. She must receive something like a hundred calls a day on her cell phone, a good percentage from me, but also from other “gattare” who have serious problems to solve.

Bambi is a “gattara,” the Roman term for one of the selfless women who spend their essence, day and night, caring for Rome’s abandoned cats. Sometimes the “gattare” volunteer their services, sometimes they are paid (less than what my cleaning girl makes) for working in cat colonies recognized by the city. Sometimes, with the assistance of the police and health care workers, they rescue hordes of cats (even dozens at a time) on the outskirts of Rome from people who mistreat them and keep them in unspeakable conditions, or from areas where construction or demolition work will destroy their natural habitat.

I know how to measure and draw the fluids for a subcutaneous infusion and how to administer it. But Bambi has a special way with cats and I pay her for her services, which are priceless.

I cannot get Cubby Duccio into the bathroom on my own every day, and sometimes I am unable to insert the butterfly needle under the skin on the first or second try, and this makes him nervous.

The nature of Bambi’s work is physically demanding and she suffers from low blood pressure and migraines. She has many more cats in her apartment than I have and when she wakes up in the morning she may have three or four (15-20 kilos total) sleeping on top of her. This is giving her serious back problems, but where can she put them at night? The cats love her, and she loves them back (no pun intended).

The nature of her mission means she is rarely punctual, so if she tells me she will be arriving at 2:30 PM, I may see her two hours later. If she promises she will arrive by 8:30 PM by 9 or 9:30 PM I have to call her to remind her because she may have forgotten or been delayed by an emergency.

One afternoon last week she told me she would be unable to come that day.

I set the stage anyway and when Checco rang my bell with the delivery, I went up the stairs and repeated the magic words.

Before I opened the door for Checco, I checked. Cubby D was in the tub hiding behind the shower curtain. I closed the bathroom door and took care of Checco. Then I went to give Cubby D his therapy. After half the dose (one full syringe, 60 ml), the butterfly needle fell out and I couldn’t reinsert it properly. He started hissing so I considered myself lucky to have done that much.

A few nights later Bambi did not appear at all. By 11 PM I gave up hope. I set the stage, went outside, rang the bell myself, then came in and made my cheery announcement.

Cubby Duccio is a smart little guy. This time he did not fall for it.

Bambi had a splitting migraine that evening and one of her co-workers at the colony had to drive her home. Why didn’t she call me, I asked when she arrived the next evening. She had forgotten her cell at the colony and my numbers were in the memory. Not the first time this has happened.

Cubby Duccio is a beautiful brown, striped tiger, 7 cat years old, with a delicate triangular face every mother could love, long white whiskers, ears a tad too big and, when he is well, a coat that is velvet to the touch.

I was never planning to take another cat. When I lived in my previous flat in the same neighborhood a horde of cats used to hide out in an abandoned lot behind a rusty corrugated gate. I fed them twice daily.

One rainy afternoon when I went with the food, Amparo was at the gate observing the cats as they arrived in single file. The last one, the runt of the litter, maybe only 6 weeks old, had a pronounced limp in one of his front legs. He was almost skeletal. She told me it was my responsibility to take care of him, just as she took care of hers. I came back the next afternoon with a carrier and as the cats approached I snatched him. It was too late to take him to the vet, but I kept him in the bathroom until the next morning. By then his limp had disappeared. The vet said it was muscular, not a bone.

I nourished him, had him tested for feline AIDS and leukemia and, when he was stronger, it was “ciao” to the balls. Cubby Duccio was mine, the latest and last member of my family.

Before Cubby Duccio was diagnosed with kidney failure almost 18 months ago, I used to marvel at what a big, strong boy he had become. I have two other brown striped males, Tiger and Pisellino, both beautiful fatties. Tiger is actually broader in the beam than me (get CinemaScope to get the picture), and if I glanced at the three of them all cuddled up together I couldn’t tell them apart.

Now Cubby D needs his fluids almost every day. If he misses too many days in a row he might no longer respond, and I will have to cry for another cat lost.

Bambi is his lifeline. His well-being is linked to hers.