Please note: This is the story about a cat’s injury, rescue, and recovery. As such, it contains unpleasant details. If you are having a bad day, perhaps you should skip this diary. If you are squeamish by nature, you might want to skip it too, and be happy in the knowledge that Noble Fur is fine now.
October 28, 2017
It was a dark and stormy night It was a beautiful blue-sky day, the type of day where all is well in the world and nothing goes wrong. Noble Fur and I had completed the first leg of our trek from Oregon to Georgia, and were headed east from Reno. 500 miles down, 2,500 miles to go.
I was looking forward to trading the populated part of Nevada for the wide open spaces where there were few vehicles and no traffic lights. It helped that it was a Saturday. The stretch of Interstate 80 from Reno to Fernley was an easy ride. Fallon was the last town, and its cranky traffic lights were actually synchronized well enough that I only had to stop once.
We were eastbound on the stretch of US Highway 50 known as the Loneliest Highway in America. About 50 miles beyond Fallon, a turnoff beckons, a turnoff to an even lonelier road that wanders into the hills, and eventually loops back to the main highway. Four years ago, I took that loop and found it more interesting than the main route, whose view is mainly flat land with desert vegetation.
Most of the time, when we choose between Option A or Option B, the outcome is basically the same. On rare occasions, a seemingly mundane choice makes all the difference in the world. As I approached the turnoff for the side road, I still wasn’t sure which way I wanted to go. At the last moment, I slowed down and made the turn. A mile down the road, after seeing that it was rougher than I remembered, I nearly turned around. But I didn’t.
As the narrow highway rose into the hills, low scrub gave way to juniper and piñon pine trees. They weren’t exactly giants, perhaps 30 feet tall, but they added character to the landscape. Rounding a bend, I encountered a change from my last trip here: A large stretch of the forest had burned. When I stopped for a picture, Noble Fur was eager for a walk. Now, I’m accustomed to her attempts to go in odd directions, but that morning she was trying to run instead of walk. First she tried to bolt across the road towards a steep embankment. I pulled her in the other direction, and we went downhill into what used to be the woods but had become a skeleton forest.
I managed to get a few pictures, but most were merely blurs of fur. She was determined to go somewhere fast. I have no idea where, and I doubt that she did either. I’ve noticed that when we are in an unfamiliar area that is mostly open, she tries to run instead of walk. Perhaps it’s an innate reaction to potential predators. Eventually I scooped her up and carried her back to the truck, hooking the loop of the leash into the passenger-side seatbelt, like I always do.
A few miles later, in the last set of curves before the road returned to the valley floor, I had to stop for a group of cattle being herded by two horsemen with border collies. I keep the camera handy for such moments. I opened the door, stood up long enough to snap two quick pictures, closed the door, and resumed driving.
Sometimes a pivotal moment comes out of the blue, and the way you respond to it will alter the course of your personal history. As I accelerated away from the cattle, something caught my eye, something that wasn’t quite right. I was sitting on Noble Fur’s leash! She was supposed to be in the back seat. Without hesitation I hit the brakes and stopped the truck.
To my horror, the leash trailed out the door.
I couldn’t help but think that my precious companion was probably dead, but I opened the door and pulled her inside. She appeared to be frozen, legs held at odd angles. For a few eternal seconds, there was no sign of life…but then she began moving. As I held her in my lap, she relaxed her legs and made a feeble attempt to walk. I could see that the tops and bottoms of her feet were skinned up, and small patches of fur were missing elsewhere.
To say that she needed help is an understatement. But we were in the middle of nowhere. On a Saturday. The town of Austin was a long 40 miles away via a wide-open highway with no traffic (and no cops). Sitting beside the road and having an emotional breakdown was not an option.
Driving like an idiot was not an option, either. My old truck wouldn’t go faster than 80mph, so that’s how fast I drove on the straight stretches. Even at that speed, it seemed to take forever to get to that little town. I alternated between watching the road, and checking to see whether Noble Fur was still breathing.
It was a longshot that one of the 192 citizens of Austin would be a veterinarian, but at least I could get information there. The woman at the convenience store said that Eureka, the next town to the east, had a vet clinic. In Nevada, “next town” means a 70-mile drive.
Noble Fur eventually limped to her padded spot behind the passenger seat, carefully lying on her side. She did not appear to be getting any worse. But I had no way to know whether her injuries were superficial, or severe.
Nevada’s topography includes numerous mountain ranges and ridges that generally run north-south. As Highway 50 crosses those ranges, the long straight stretches are punctuated by steep crooked stretches, complete with switchbacks. It didn’t matter how desperate my situation was; I had to slow down and pay attention to the road.
Eureka is a scenic town nestled on the west side of one of those high ridges. I stopped at the first open store that I saw, and asked for directions to the vet’s office. I got directions, plus two phone numbers. As I had feared, the office was closed. Even worse, the sign on the door proclaimed that they didn’t do emergencies. I called the office phone just in case; the recorded message basically said to find another vet in another town.
I called the other number I’d been given, and found myself talking with the wife of the state veterinarian. She said that maybe I could find someone in Elko, 100 miles north. To the east, the town of Ely had a vet or two, but I probably wouldn’t be able to track them down on a Saturday. But if I was going as far as Delta, Utah, there was a good chance of getting help. I thanked her for the information, and went online to get some phone numbers. Soon I found myself speaking with a vet in Delta who agreed to meet me. “When you are about 30 miles from town, you should have a phone signal. Call me then, and I will head for my office.”
So there I was, parked next to the clinic in Eureka with a badly injured kitty, but the doors were locked. I had already driven 110 miles. Delta was another 230 miles down the highway. The good news was that I had planned to go to Delta anyway. The town had a pet-friendly motel where I had stayed on the westbound leg of my journey.
I patted Noble Fur on the head. “Hang in there. I will get help for you.” Down the highway we went.
On previous trips across Nevada, I admired the scenery and took pictures. Today I had one mission, and only one: Deliver Noble Fur to the vet as quickly as I could safely travel. The fact that I was driving a truck with 398,000 miles was not lost on me. I tried not to think about what would happen if it broke down somewhere on that Loneliest Highway in America.
Noble Fur changed positions from time to time. It was always a relief when she moved, because it informed me that she was in a reasonably stable situation. Still, I checked her frequently to make sure she was as comfortable as she could be under the circumstances – and to make sure she was breathing.
At long last, around dark, the town of Delta came into sight. I coasted to a stop at the front door of the veterinarian’s office, and carried Noble Fur inside. The news was good. No apparent internal injuries or broken bones. She was given two injections, one for pain and one to prevent infection. The vet told me that she’d be mostly healed in about two weeks. To help her along, he gave me some oral pain medicine to administer daily.
The motel was less than a mile away. I was happy to tell the woman in the office that I needed a room “for one person and one cat.” One cat who showed up in my world a couple years ago, and who had just used up one of her nine lives.
Two Thousand miles of road still awaited us. But this trip wasn’t measured only in miles. Each day saw slow but steady progress from Noble Fur. On the first night, she drank a bit of water. Late on the second day, she ate a few bites of food. She was too sore to reach into her dishes, so I held them up next to her mouth. She finally used the litter box, and began to gingerly groom herself.
As the miles sped by, Noble Fur made herself as comfortable as possible, never complaining about the long hours in the truck. Five days after the injury, we were in central Missouri. I stopped at a roadside park, and she wanted to go outside. Up to this point, I had not touched the leash – in fact, I had nearly tossed it in the trash. But I put it on her, and she eagerly explored the park. Clearly she was on the way to recovery.
Oh yeah, that leash. Once upon a time, I thought that the empty-leash scene in National Lampoon’s Vacation was funny. As I got older, it seemed less so. After that fateful day in Nevada, the scene hits too close to home.
There are so many what-ifs in this story. For starters, had I stayed on the main highway, none of this would have happened. If we hadn’t gone for a walk in the skeleton forest, we would not have encountered the cows in the road, at least not at the same place. Had there not been a bad reflection in the windshield, I wouldn’t have gotten out of the truck to take the pictures. On the other hand, if I hadn’t trained myself to notice things that are out of place, I might not have stopped the truck until it was far too late. Given that Noble Fur survived the incident, that is the what-if that haunts me the most. It’s a relief to know that the worst case did not happen.
From now on, when Noble Fur is a passenger with me, the leash will be secured in such a way that she cannot possibly jump out a door or window. The past cannot be changed, but it need never be repeated.
Noble Fur now has a new look. I look forward to sharing many delightful pictures of the beloved feline with her blue leash.
Two years ago this week, Noble Fur wandered into my life and changed it for the better. She is, after all, the World’s Bestest Kitty. When I see her now, I’m so grateful that she survived that scary day. Hopefully she will be with us for many years to come.
Thank you for reading. Of all the diaries I’ve posted, this was the most difficult to write.