To Pooters or not to Pooters?

That is the question.

The year was 2009. On a beautiful fall day, we traveled down a long, deserted dirt road far outside of Grand Rapids in response to an ad. We were hopeful that the kitten we were about to meet would be healthy, sweet, and most importantly, sane. We had been looking for a Siamese kitten for almost a year without any luck. We had visited breeders, the A.S.P.C.A., and local folk whose cat unexpectedly had a litter. The cat we were about to meet sounded perfect—His name was Milo; he was a Siamese; he was eight weeks old; he was litterbox trained, and he was seventy-five bucks. When we arrived at the doublewide trailer that housed Milo, we observed that inside lived a family of seven (two parents, a grandmother, and four children) with two large dogs, two small dogs, and two adult cats. The family was as-sweet-as-can-be but it was clear, the money from the sale of Milo was greatly needed.

When we met Milo, we were shocked at how tiny he was for being eight-weeks old. He weighed less than a pound and fit into the palm of my hand. The family told us that they couldn’t afford a veterinarian nor could they afford pet food so Milo did not have any shots and had been only fed table scraps. We had noticed two adult Siamese cats on the porch. The family said the two cats were the parents and that we can pet them. This was perfect, you can usually tell the future temperament of a kitten by the docileness of its parents. Well, both parents were beautiful, gentle, and loved to be held. What a terrific sign. Milo was so precious that we decided to adopt him despite not knowing whether he was fatally ill with a feline disease. When I pulled out my money to pay, I told the family. “I would like to give you some extra money for not selling Milo to anyone until we were able to visit. Most people would not have done so and it means a lot to us.” So a hundred and forty dollars later, we were on our way home with Milo.

On the car ride home, I held Milo wrapped in a towel on my lap. He was very quiet and wouldn’t take his eyes off of me. As I petted Milo, I noticed little black spots all over his body. Fleas!!! I spent the hour–and–a–half ride home picking fleas off Milo and snapping their heads off with my fingernails. It made the drive fly by.

When we reached Kalamazoo, we stopped at a pet store to pick up flea shampoo and high–end pet food—only the best for our kitten. When we got home, we gave Milo a bath in hopes of killing the fleas. No such luck. He still was covered in fleas so we gave him another bath. Those darn fleas were still clinging on. For the record, that was the only time Milo ever let us bathe him. I guess we used up our lifetime quota of cat baths that night.

On the way home from Grand Rapids, we called our veterinarian to schedule an exam and immunization shots. We voiced our concern about how small Milo was for his age and she said, “Let him eat his fill and we will make a game plan at next day’s visit.” So we opened the bag of obscenely expensive kitten food and filled up the cat bowl. Bam! The bowl was empty so we filled it up again. Bam! The bowl was empty. I said, “I think that’s enough food. He ate a whole cup. I don’t want him getting sick.” I picked up Milo and put him on my lap so we could relax and watch TV. Ten minutes later, the foulest smell ever to hit my nose suffocated me. I waved my hand back and forth in front of my face and asked, “Who cut the cheese?” Well, if it wasn’t that sneaky, little Milo. His system was so used to eating bread scraps that his body couldn’t process the high-protein kitten food. This went on for six months! That’s when Milo became Pooters. We called him Pooters because 1) that’s what my Savannahian grandmother would call you if you passed gas and 2) it was cuter than calling him Quit-Farting-Already or Smelly Cat.

At the veterinarian visit we discovered that Pooters was very under weight, had mutant fleas that could only be killed with a professional flea dip, and had both worms and kennel cough. The good news was he didn’t have anything incurable and he recovered quickly–except for the farting.

Pooters no longer passes gas uncontrollably (unless you scare him, then a toxic cloud shoots out of him) and he is the sweetest, most well-adjusted cat I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. Why he’s sitting on my lap while I typed his story.

Peace, my friends