I went back to Monticello for the second time on Saturday. Mom and Dad had arrived on Friday and it just seemed like the thing to do.
Seeing Monticello with an all adult group was a much different experience than my trip with the boys. No one ran ahead or had to be reminded not to touch anything and there was a little less confusion involved. It was as if I’d been a scout on my first tour, living with the Indians, returning to bring the settlers through the wilderness. I had a good working knowledge of the layout and it was nice to know where the elevators were to save Mom the trials of the steps. I don’t think you could ever see all if the estate in one day, or even two. Dave and I picked up annual passes so we’ll be really well versed in Monticello lore when our next set of visitors arrives.
That evening while I had Izzie outside for some fresh air, I made a tactical error. I saw the
neighbor’s dog, Marky, out in the yard and decided to go over and say hello. She’s an unusual looking creature; a pit bull Airedale mix, with the easy going, friendly personality of most mutts. As I approached, she jumped up on the fence, her tail wagging happily.
Izzie must have mistook these actions as an attack and came at the poor dog with all the ferocity she could muster; back arched, tail puffed, hissing, spitting and swatting through the fence. Like a fool, I reached down to grab Izzie by the scruff of her neck to
pull her off the dog when she turned and bit me – hard. Her bite broke the skin on my wrist both top and bottom and began to bleed. I got Izzie back inside, washed and bandaged my wound and went on with my evening.
After church on Sunday, my hand and arm didn’t look so good. The bite was red and angry and a long thin line of red ran from my wrist all the way up to the crease in my
elbow. It is a mystery why these things always happen on weekends outside a doctor’s normal office hours. This, compounded by our newness to this area weighted my decision to just wait until Monday to “see how it goes”. Besides, we were expecting Dave’s sister,
Ginny and her husband George for dinner and I felt OK. George and Ginny arrived about five-thirty on the heels of a nasty thunder storm. Not long after their arrival, just as I was about to begin cooking, the power went out. We were planning on grilling our pork
tenderloin so it was easy enough to just toss the asparagus on the grill as well and our meal went on as planned. All through dinner, people kept asking me if I felt OK. I was a bit warm and clammy because the air-conditioning had been out for a couple of hours, my hand hurt and the red streak was a bit thicker, but otherwise I felt alright. After a brief discussion on how bad my arm looked, it was the general consensus of my family that I should go to the emergency room ASAP. Ginny said she was going to bed early anyway
and she would sleep better knowing I was on antibiotics. Mom agreed. Dad and George, men who’ve both been married for a long time, wisely chose to agree with their wives. Dave announced that if we were going to go, we needed to get going. Naturally, even injured, it was my job to find out where we were going. I looked up the addresses of both local hospitals and loaded them into the Garman and off we drove into the night (it was about eight thirty).
It took just about twenty minutes to get to the Martha Jefferson Hospital emergency room. Any fears I had about going to a downtown emergency room were squashed as soon as I walked through the door and a cheery security guard welcomed me and asked me
what my trouble was. I told him I had a cat bite. He didn’t look surprised and simply remarked, “they can be nasty” as he called for a triage nurse. Apparently they get three to four infected cat bites in the ER in any given week so my concern that I was wasting the time of medical professions was unfounded. Cats’ teeth are so small that they work almost like hypodermic needles, pushing the bacteria from their mouths and worse yet, your skin down into your muscle tissue providing an excellent breading ground for infection.
Two and a half hours later we were back on the road home. I’d been x-rayed for broken tooth fragments, poked for blood tests and a given new tetanus shot and a bag of IV antibiotics. I felt a lot better, both physically and emotionally. I couldn’t have asked for kinder care givers. Sadly, I also had to complete a state “animal bite” form registering Izzie as an offender. Yes, she is now a feline felon.
When we got home a little after midnight, the house was dark. Not a creature was stirring –most noticeably, not Izzie who generally greets us whenever we come home. Calls didn’t bring her, inside or out. All closets were opened to see if she’d been shut up somewhere but no Izzie. Finally, tired to the bone, Dave and I elected to leave her in God’s hands for the night and went off to bed.
It is amazing how quiet a house becomes when you know someone is missing. The absence of the soft tinkle of Izzie’s collar bell and rabies tag was deafening. It made falling asleep a challenge but eventually we did.
The next morning we both woke about six. While Dave padded to the bathroom to brush his teeth, I hurried to the back door to see it there was a cat to drag in and there was! Like
to proverbial prodigal, Izzie slinked in, rubbing against my legs as she did. We’d both had adventures the night before and were glad to see each other and to be home. Since that morning, she hasn’t left my side much, nor does she venture too far from the deck when we take her out for some air. I know that eventually she will want to push the envelope and explore and may even spend another night or two outside. I also know that if she finds her way home, I will always open the door to welcome her back.