Member-only story
The Remarkable Rescue of Pepin the Cat
On the verge of becoming parents, we lost our beloved cat. The love of our new community and the advice of a cat whisperer brought him home.
Twelve years ago this month, in anticipation of the imminent arrival of our first child, I had become fixated on taking our two cats to the vet for their annual checkup. Call it nesting, call it controlling what I could, call it what you will, but it had to be done.
The cats were both a year and a half old, hardly more than kittens. We had adopted Arthur first, from my then-husband’s parents’ farm. White with black spots, Arthur was as fierce as a tornado with claws. We had named him after King Arthur because of his larger-than-life persona.
When we took Arthur in for his first shots, the vet, who was built like an ex-football player, grabbed the kitten by the scruff and stared into his eyes.
“This is what I call the ‘come-to-Jesus’ moment,” he intoned.
Suddenly Arthur hissed, drew back his front paws like he was possessed, and latched onto the vet’s face, claws fully extended. Blood streamed down the vet’s forehead as he threw the kitten to the floor.
