Welcome to Texas, Love, Mama

My mother and I have a sort of role reversal thing going on. But I still want her to take care of me in any little way she can. The limits of this are constantly being tested.

My mother lives in senior citizen housing. As part of the annual review of her lease and to assess her rent, we needed to bring her bank statements and a photo of her cat, along with proof of rabies vaccination. The cat’s name is “Mama” and my mother took her in as a feral cat. She has lived with her for 5 years.

Mom had borrowed a cat carrier and asked me to come over and put the cat in it so we could go to the vet. I told her that the cat did not know me, so it made more sense to me for her to do it, but she said that she could not, “That cat is too strong”. So I arrived at the apartment, where she had the cat in the bathroom with the door closed.

I entered, making sweet cat noises (kissing sounds) and saying “Come here kitty, it’s ok”- I picked up the cat, who was hiding in the shower. She went berserk.

I thought that I was good with cats. I am wrong about feral Texas cats. The cat shredded my hands and bit me repeatedly. I yelled to my mother to get me a towel. I tried to wrap the cat in it. Nothing worked. I was bleeding onto the floor at this point, and the cat gave me a final deep bite to my left pinkie finger. I gave up and let go.

I went into the bathroom and started furiously washing the scratches and bites with warm water and soap. My mother said “You will just explain to the Housing Authority”, I said “Mom! I need to some first aide here! I need to go to the doctor and get a tetanus shot! I’m hurt! The hell with the cat and the hell with the Housing Authority!”. She, equating the lack of a certificate with instant homelessness could not concentrate on my well being. And I, equating her lack of immediate sympathy for me as a sign that she did not care about me, escalated. I asked (yelling) her to get me a very clean towel and a bag of ice. “I don’t have any plastic bags”, she said.

“You have NO plastic bags? How is that possible?” She replied, “I have garbage bags, do you want one of those?” Trying to calm down, I said “Yes, mother, that will be fine”. Then the power went out to the complex. I could not see anything in the bathroom. We decided to leave, with my hands wrapped in a large, green garbage bag with 6 cubes of ice in the corner, and a towel.

We got into my rental car. Mom said “Before we go anywhere I need to get me some cigarettes”.

I told her that I did not care about the cigarettes, the cat or the Housing Authority. We drove to the walk-in clinic. They cleaned and dressed my hands, gave me a tetanus shot and a prescription for antibiotics. Much discussion about rabies ensued. The cat (through my brother’s efforts) has had a rabies vaccination every year. We left and went to the Housing Authority with my hands wrapped like a burn victim’s. They reminded us that we needed to come back with a photo of the cat and proof of vaccination. My mother remained worried about eviction.

I called my brother, Michael. He came over, picked the cat up by the scruff of the neck and put her in the carrier. We took her to the vet and nobody had any trouble with her, they clipped her nails and everything. This morning, I woke up with my left pinkie finger hot and numb. An interesting name for the cat: “Mama”.