Fufu came to us on a wretchedly cold night in mid-November. Our vet (Dr.H) guessed her age at about three months, based on her size and her teeth, so we assigned her a birthday of August 15th. Last month we asked him when we should get her fixed, and he said she had to be at least seven months old, which, according to our best guess, was around March 15th. We gave it another two weeks to be safe, and took her in today.
Well. Unfortunately, it turns out Fufu was already pregnant. By the time Dr.H found the babies, it was too late to save them, and it meant his surgery had to be a bit more extensive than originally intended. She lost a fair amount of blood, and I guess that’s where most of the anesthetic was, so she went through more pain than she should have as well, poor thing.
There was no way we could have known. We were sure she was too young, and we never saw any evidence that she was in heat – and given the way Lilu was behaving, I think we can say we know what that looks like. She’d apparently been pregnant for about four weeks, i.e. since before she was even old enough to have the surgery, i.e. much younger than is really safe. But still, we feel terrible for her, and for the babies. She’s very weak, in a lot of pain, bone thin, still a bit stoned and can barely stagger, but she keeps climbing out of her basket and trying to go… somewhere. We postponed our engagements in Munich tomorrow and lined up in-laws and Ignatz so that she doesn’t have to be alone. Cats are sturdy critters, but we’re worried.
Song du jour of the day: Three Babies, by Sinéad O’Connor