A few weeks ago I thought I killed my cat. Writing that gave me a cold chill.
We had a wooden bed frame in our room that was squeaking horribly. The kind of squeak where you couldn't breathe let alone roll over without the bed creaking and disturbing your sleep. All it needed was a washer or two to make the horrid sound stop, but our eventual plan was to move that frame to the spare bedroom so I thought I would just speed up the process and move it right then and there by myself. I'd like to note that Adam was in the shower and I could have waited 5 minutes for him to get out to help me, but I didn't. I'm stubborn and thought I could do it myself.
The cat was sitting on my desk watching my labored grunts as I tried to push, pull, and otherwise move the mattress with my mind. Finally I get the mattress to move. Inch by inch I scooted the mattress off the edge of the bed frame really kind of proud of myself. Who needs a boy to do hard labor? Not this girl. Finally I got the last bit of mattress on the very edge of the frame. There was just about 8 inches of space between where the mattress sat hovering and the floor. I shoved it off the frame and it made a loud thud on the floor.
Then it was as if I knew even before I really knew. I scanned the bedroom for the cat. Where was she? Seconds later came the most horrible sound I have ever heard: the sound of my cat in clear distress. Oh my god. She was underneath the mattress and box spring.
You know how people talk about getting this rush of adrenaline when something bad happens? Someone may suddenly get the ability to lift a car off of a person when they could barely lift 50 lbs in the moment before that. You had better believe that I became superhuman in the moment that I knew she was under there. Without any effort I lifted both mattress and box springs. Deming was meowing and went running underneath my desk.
I grabbed her and she just kept meowing as I started crying. Oh my god... I had just dropped a bed on my cat. Was she ok? Did I break something? Did I need to take her to the vet? And what on earth would I tell them? "I'm sorry, here is my cat - I just dropped my bed on her." That sounded ridiculous - True, but ridiculous.
I was trembling and in tears when Adam came downstairs. He checked her out and thought that she seemed ok. She was still running around, didn't seem at all injured, just a little frightened. I think I was more shaken up than she was. The next 48 hours I stared at her for any evidence of discomfort or pain. She was fine.
Having come from a home where we didn't have pets growing up, I had no idea what people talked about when they spoke of such love for their animals. In that moment, I understood.
Deming has now survived 3 days in the trunk of my car and a bed falling from the sky. I bet she's grateful cats have 9 lives. I know I am.
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