"Life is what happens to you when you are making other plans," goes an old saying coined in 1957 by cartoonist Allen Saunders but made famous by a John Lennon song. Life happened Tuesday morning as I drove to work along Arctic Boulevard in Anchorage, thinking of the day ahead -- calls to be made, deadlines to be met.
I was turning almost robotically onto 32nd Avenue, just a couple of blocks from the Alaska Dispatch News offices, when a furry black and white lump on the sidewalk caught my eye and jolted me from my morning routine.
At first glance, it looked like an opossum. Knowing enough about Alaska to understand that if it was an opossum it was really, really lost, I slowed, realizing that the animal was actually a cat. It was in a very unusual position, motionless, with its four paws and belly firmly planted on the ground.
Well, not on the ground -- to the ground. It appeared as if the cat simply froze while stalking something. Its legs were bent, its body tensed as though ready to pounce.
Coming to a stop, I could see the cat's head barely moving up and down, like a toddler fending off sleep, as it struggled to stay conscious. Traffic passed by. I wondered how many people saw the distressed animal and didn't slow down to take a closer look.
Late to work, extremely allergic to cats -- even the sight of one can send me into an hours-long sneezing, wheezing, and coughing fit for which time is the only remedy -- and not a fan of feline aloofness, I realized life was nonetheless presenting me a situation that couldn't be ignored.
A blast of cold air hit me as I got out of my car and walked up to the cat. It was about 8:45 a.m. The temperature in Midtown Anchorage was in the single digits. As I got closer, I noticed that the cat was completely frozen to the ground. Each of its four paws, its belly and its tail were cemented to the sidewalk by a combination of the animal's urine and feces.
From the back of my car, I grabbed an Alaska Grown sweatshirt my mother had given me a few years ago and scooped the cat into it. The cat's fur and paws crackled like Velcro as they peeled from the frozen sidewalk.
The cat, for its part, never moved or fought. It weakly opened it eyes, looked at me and issued a low, panicked mew.
The cat was a mess. Its fur was frozen solid, as was its entire tail, matted by whatever fluids the cat had leaked after it found itself locked to the ground. Its belly and paws were iced over. Loading the cat into the passenger seat of my car, I immediately drove to the veterinarian who takes care of my family's dogs.
During the 10-minute ride to the vet, the cat only moved to lift its head twice. It could barely keep its eyes open as I yelled at the car in front of me.
Animal Control wasn't open yet -- it opens at 11 a.m. on weekdays -- so I thought I could find some immediate care for the cat and then have it taken to the pound, where I hoped any possible owners would eventually find it. The staff at VCA Alaska Pet Care Animal Hospital took the hypothermic cat from me as soon as I entered the lobby. I called and left a message for Animal Care and Control, paid the bill for the cat's immediate care and went to work with a slightly self-satisfied smile and what I thought would be a good excuse for my tardiness.
I drove back to work and noticed that the cat had left quite a mess on my car's passenger seat. Hair and the scent of urine wafted through the car. I tried to hold my breath, already beginning to wheeze from allergies.
As I made my way back to work, I tried to convince myself that the cat would be OK -- either picked up by its owner or given to a new home. But the thought of that cat, nearly frozen to death on the sidewalk, bothered me. I felt somewhat responsible for the cat's future well-being.
After all, with everything that happened to the hapless feline over the last day, I wasn't sure the animal would see a happy ending. A few phone calls to the vet and Animal Control allayed my fears -- I would be kept informed of the cat's status and would be allowed to adopt the animal, should its owner not come forward.
The cat, I was told by the vet, is a 3-year-old female American Shorthair. She may lose part or all of her tail to frostbite, but she otherwise seemed healthy and well cared for. She was on fluids and pain medicine by Tuesday afternoon, and I'm told she has a very sweet disposition.
Unfortunately, she did not have an identifying microchip or tattoo, making a reunion with her previous owners (if she had any) less likely.
According to Anchorage Animal Care and Control, of the approximately 1,700 cats impounded, relinquished or taken into protective custody last year, 480 were euthanized. 816 were adopted and only 248 were claimed by their original owners. And surprisingly, throughout the U.S., cats are occasionally found frozen to the ground, like this one. Many survive, but some don't. It's all a matter of timing. And for and this cat and me, the cosmic clock was perfectly synchronized.
So even after a few hours of lost time, about $60 in vet bills, having to change my clothes in the middle of the day and at least an hour of car seat cleaning still ahead of me, the cost of meeting the cat seemed like a fair trade.
I'm also not sure I can still consider myself "not a cat person." Well played, kitty.