Mister Moo's Neighborhood

A few people have asked how Mister Moo is doing, and I'm inclined to give him a blog all his own to explain. Let me assure all of those interested that Mister Moo is more than fine these days. In fact, I might describe him as downright silly! Yes, he's been giddy with life, as if he knows he escaped a death sentence. No kidding, folks, he is a firestorm of energy and life. And it thrills me everytime I see him enjoying his great world!

My heart is still all mushy where the little moo cow is concerned. I look at him and can't help but be grateful to see his little masked face staring happily back at me. He seems thankful too. I can't explain it. He just seems to understand that the horrible day he experienced was an evil necessity to restoring his good health. His fur is short, but filling in over the scar. He likes it when I pet him there too. I believe it's healing and is possibly just a bit itchy. The scar that remains is a testament to his bravery. What a trooper!

If we back up just a little, this started as the tiniest bump on his neck. I commissioned my neighbor who is a farmgirl to look at the spot. I so clearly remember her saying, "You've got nothing to worry about there." A few weeks passed with the little bump becoming just the eensiest bit larger, and Mister Moo becoming just a little bit less comfortable with anyone messing with it. I finally called the vet when the hard little callous wouldn't go away.

I really thought we'd just be zipping in to have a piece of a burr removed from under his skin by a lancing procedure. When Dr. G looked at the bump and palpated it, she looked confused. She drew some cells from it, a procedure that didn't seem to faze Mister Moo in the least. When she came back from the lab area after examining the slide, she knelt down to peer at Mister Moo who was cowering under a chair in the exam room. When she said, "those are some pretty unhappy cells," my heart fell.

She assured me that it was not a foreign object causing this lump, and that it would need to be surgically removed. And because of Mister Moo's age, he would need bloodwork to be sure he was healthy enough to undergo surgery. Thankfully, the tests she took that day all came back fine. Surgery was scheduled for the morning after a double shift for me (of course)! I got up early to have him to the vet by 7am. I had two offers from great people to take him so I could get ready for my day job without the added burden of a 50-mile roundtrip before my day began, but I couldn't convince myself that this was an acceptable mode of transporting my little dude to the scariest day of our lives together. So I forewent sleep and talked him into partaking in a prayer with me on the way down.

Leaving him, signing the papers, and giving my daytime phone number to the vet officials at the desk was beyond horrible. I had grave misgivings leaving him there. I was positive something awful was going to happen to him as they were operating. I'm not kidding when I tell you that I wished it was me who needed the surgery that day. I gave the "I know we aren't supposed to have cell phones" speech to all of my classes that day so I wouldn't have to deal with the chastising that would come with the ringing of my phone should my worst fear be realized. I ended every speech that day with, "Trust me, I don't want my phone to ring." Thank God, it never did.

I was still panicked driving back to pick him up after school. I was sure they would just give me the bad news when I arrived to retrieve Mister Moo. "I'm sorry, we lost him on the table." I'd be leaning against the high counter sobbing while they asked if I wanted them to cremate him... When I was getting out of my car to go in, I was sure the woman behind the counter had an "uh-oh" look on her face when she saw me. I didn't so much request my cat as I asked, "I'm here for Mister Moo?" The woman looked sentimentally at me and said, "Oh, Mister Moo." She walked to the back, but I wasn't sure if she was coming back with my cat or the vet who would tell me the horrid details of how he died.

When I saw her carrying my pet carrier with a black and white face peering out, I breathed for the first time that day. "You're so silly!" I thought to myself. Then, as I was cooing at him and reassuring him that we would go home now, he turned his head. It was all I could do to hold in an audible gasp when I got my first look at the wound. It actually looked like they had tried to saw his head off. I am not kidding about this!

It was very difficult to look at the surgical incision Dr. G put into him. She popped out to the front while I was paying my bill so I took the opportunity to ask her (I swear I even sounded calm!) how it had gone. She said it was a very deep and strange little tumor, but that she'd gotten it all. Good. She also told me that for a moment during the surgery, she thought I'd been right after all and there was a foreign object under his skin. Apparently this small bump had a stick-like stem in it that was buried deep into his shoulder blade. I listened intently to all she had to say. Interestingly, the $15.00 worth of pain meds that I'd opted for was actually given in the form of a shot while he was still under so I wouldn't have to try to jam any pills down his throat during his recuperation. Rock on solid there! They all gave him glowing reviews for being a perfect patient too. "We didn't even know he was here," they raved!

The last detail was to find out how long we'd have to wait for the results of the biopsy. A week to ten days was the answer. Ugh! It seemed like an awfully long time to wait for a biopsy, but there was no choice in the matter.

And so we left. They warned me that he might not be hungry for awhile, but my little guy wanted food the moment he was freed from his plastic prison with a handle. Of course I acquiesced. He drank water for a long time too. They said he may cough for a few days from the intubation of the anesthesia tube down his throat, but he never did. He was a brave soul in every way as he recovered. The saddest part of bringing him home was the shunning he received from the brother and sister who were not excited about his 'funny smell' and weird wound. I really think they perceived him to be the weak link. Others have told me this is normal behavior for animals, but I still scolded the two who rebuffed him so nastily. Poor Mister Moo just wanted to nuzzle Punkie and be welcomed home, but Punkin would have none of it. I think they still resent Mister Moo's odd scar and extra attention, but they have mostly accepted him back into the family.

Of course you all know by now that it wasn't cancer. We found out only five days after the surgery. Dr. G left a message on my answering machine that told me right away that Mister Moo's odd tumor had many strange results, but no cancer. She even surmised that it might have been a foreign object, after all. I could have called her back to find out more, but the Big C was definitively not present, and that is all that mattered to me. I should have had one last opportunity to see her for suture removal, but I did that myself to make it easier on Mister Moo. So the day we left the veterinarian clinic and the sun came out for the first time in days was the beginning of putting that day behind us.

For the most part, we are back on track. And as I've said, Mister Moo is very energetic and happy again (though he never lost his verve, even under the heavy sedation of that 3-day painkiller they injected into him). Mister Moo has always been laid back. He's the calming force in my life at home. His stoic demeanor during the ordeal that put me into such a panic speaks volumes about his character. I love watching him resuming his napping activities, his flagrant pushing of the water bowl to get the water spilled so he can lap it from the floor instead of the deep pool that lies in the bowl, and his usual greeting me at the door. Life is good in Mister Moo's neighborhood.