f you had been passing our apartment that day, you might have seen the following:

A big orange kitty on the second story windowsill. He sniffs the breeze and slinks his front paws a bit down the brick wall. He jumps from the sill and falls - what, 20 feet? But he is not falling really, he is flying, paws stretched and poised for the thump of the cement. He shakes it off, tail aflutter. He continues on his way.

This was tremendous. A flying kitty cat! Weren't cats always getting stuck in trees and burning houses? And here was this mighty beast - average by most standards -- taking a literal leap of faith to get to where he longed to be. How could we stop him? We worried at times. He might break a leg. He might tangle with the tomcats. But I, for one, felt a certain swelling of pride. Such agility, such fearlessness! One moment, he'd be sitting by my side at the computer and the next, I'd see him on the ground below, rubbing against a giant oak.

But the slashes on his nose returned. Bumps in funny places. The top of his head became rocky with scabs, and - eerily, grotesquely - the side of his face began to swell. The swelling was hard and bulbous. I could cup it in my hand. Nothing happened if you pressed, just a soft, pleading whimper. Brrrrow.

By the way: The cat does not die. Were you worried? This is not a dying cat story. That would be awful. The cat is curled up on the bed as I write this, purring like a tiny engine. He woke me up this morning. Two soft scratches on my forearm. Hell-oo? Whaddaya have to do to get some wet food around here?

So we return to the vet. They know us now. I make dumb jokes when we arrive. "The cat missed you guys," etc. etc. I bring the cat without a carrier, letting him ride alongside me in the car, crawling between the front and the back seat. Maybe it's wrong that I do this. But he pees on himself in the carrier. He bashes his nose bloody on the hard plastic mesh. Usually, he's fine, except this time, he pees in the back seat. Then he poops. The smell is gagging me, but I can't roll down the window or he'll jump out. He climbs into my lap - wet and stinking - and mews over and over. He mews so loudly and so strangely -- eyes popping and his jaw frozen wide -- that I begin to suspect he is rabid. Something bit him, and he's rabid. He could bite me, and then maybe I'd go rabid. If I didn't go rabid, I'd have to spend the rest of the day at PrimaCare, which is maybe just as bad. (Have you seen their magazine selection?) Just then, there is a popping sound, and a liquid oozes out of the top of his head. Mucus the color of celery. A tad iridescent. It smells like you think it smells. Rotting, foul. I can't stop staring at it as I drive, a shimmering puddle of pus on his forehead. The cat closes his eyes afterward, as though he has worked very hard.

"Abcess popped," the vet says. "Look like he's been trying to settle a score."
It makes the cat sound like a gangbanger, like a mafioso.
"You can tell when it's a fight," the vet says, snipping at the fur on top of his head. "If the cat runs, the bite's on the tail. If he stands his ground, bite's on the face."
He wipes off all the green liquid to reveal two purple puncture wounds. They bit his fucking skull. Of course, the vet will have to operate.
"I just got my dachsund back from the doctor's," says the technician after the vet leaves. "He had back surgery. Cost me $3,500."
Good christ. How did we get here?

A few months before this, my boyfriend and I heard a radio program about spending exorbitant amounts of money on pets. Some interviewees gave Prozac to their animals. Others were bankrolling a series of operations. One woman had borrowed $25,000 to save her sick puppy. It was ridiculous. We both agreed.
But then: How much was too much? We asked ourselves this all the time. What number, spoken by the vet, would convince us to simply throw up our hands? Too bad, kitty cat. It's out of our control. Would we put him down? Would we drive out to Tyler and simply open the car door? Surely we would care for him as he sputtered and flailed. Stroke his fur, clean up his mess. Every time I envisioned this scenario, my heart went out to the poor cat. But then, quickly, I thought only of myself, of the guilt and grief I would feel. My stomach turned with the thought of it. What number could purchase that guilt?

We still don't know the answer. The vet was generous and did the final surgery for considerably little. That was months ago. Now, the cat's fur and whiskers have almost grown back. He's well enough now to leap out the window when we're being careless on a bright fall day. Every afternoon, at some point, he parades in front of the door, begging to go outside. I try to play with him at those times. If that doesn't work, I put on music.
Sometimes, I can't believe it. That he could be so banged up by the world and still beg to return. I wish I had that resilience. A few knicks and scratches and I rush back to safety. But not that big orange kitty cat. He's a fighter. He's a bad fighter too, which doesn't help.

There's not really an ending here. Or a lesson, even. Just some loose fur around the house and a story about a big orange kitty cat I came to know.