Free The Dog With the Old Soul by Jennifer Basye Sander

placed the towel around him and brought his toweled body to the house. With my roommate’s help, I placed him in the carrier and closed it.
    Whatever Little Orange had experienced, I’d never know, but his ordeal increased with the visit to the vet’s office where I’d taken my pets for more than two decades.
    I’d advised the desk personnel that the cat was feral, that it was injured, and that it was undernourished and probably dehydrated. I gave his name as Little Orange and completed the necessary paperwork before being shown into an exam room. The tech opened the carrier; Little Orange popped his head out, eyes crusted black, burrs on his head; and the tech tipped the carrier. She didn’t want to handle this little cat. Still frightenedfrom the earlier chase, Little Orange fell from the exam table before my roommate or I could catch him. The tech simply stood. Little Orange scrambled for the door, hissing.
    My roommate picked him up. The tech insisted on taking Little Orange to the back for the exam. We said we’d carry him.
    “You’re not allowed back there,” the tech said.
    In hindsight, we should have left then, but we were both exhausted. We allowed the tech to take Little Orange, and then we paced the exam room until the doctor appeared.
    “That cat is out of control. He is an unneutered male, and he scratched me and tried to bite me,” she said and continued to call him everything except pure evil.
    My roommate and I looked at one another. He’d never been that way, not even when I pulled him from the fence. The hissing, I knew, was his only defense. The doctor suggested this test or that test, but only after we badgered her. Her first suggestion was euthanization. Immediately.
    “Can we be there?” I asked.
    “Absolutely not,” she said, adding that she’d give him a sedative first.
    “Absolutely not,” we said in unison.
    We spent the next thirty minutes phoning a friend who works with feral cats, another who loves cats and yet another who is known for having a solid head. One said that we needed to have the basic tests for HIV and feline leukemia done. Those would inform our next step. The tests came back negative. Good news. One friend then suggested we take the cat to the SPCA for medical care.
    The next step was a complete blood panel to rule out kidney and liver disease, which we would have the SPCA do. Another thirty minutes passed before we told the vet that we would take the cat to the SPCA. It took ten minutes for them to retrieve Little Orange.
    “He’s much calmer,” the tech said.
    We drove away, intent on going to the SPCA. Turned out that it was closed on Mondays. We took Little Orange home and quarantined him in the spare bathroom. We put blankets and towels down, a litter box, food and water. He didn’t jump out of the carrier, as my other cats always did. He remained there until later that night, when I tipped the carrier. I helped him onto the bed we’d made for him out of towels and blankets. Little Orange was covered with burrs.
    We made additional calls that evening, with the intention of bringing him to the SPCA the next morning. One friend suggested we try her vet. I phoned Dr. K’s office the next morning. We took Little Orange to the office. He hissed once at Dr. K. After the exam, we asked about blood tests. He ordered the tests. He told us that the cat was very ill. He suggested fluids for Little Orange.
    We took Little Orange home, his neck fuller because of the subcutaneous fluids he’d received. He licked my finger clean of the canned food I offered and let me know when he was full. We purchased additional bedding for him.
    Partial test results that evening indicated no kidney or liver problems. That, combined with the doctor’s proclamation that Little Orange had a strong heart and strong lungs, gave ushope. With fluids, food, rest and safety, he’d grow stronger, like another cat I’d rescued several years earlier.
    For the next few days, we changed his