VOLUME 2, ISSUE 1

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Upper Respiratory.  If those words don't strike dread inside you, they should.  It's a nasty, contagious virus that can afflict our beloved felines.  It's called upper respiratory for a good reason.  It doesn't affect the lungs, just the eyes and nose.  But that's enough.  Noses run, eyes fill with mucus.  Cats' noses can become so stuffed up, they have to breathe through their mouths. 

The theory is that most cats carry it but only become susceptible when stressed due to, e.g., poor physical condition and/or unfamiliar surroundings.

Being a foster home for Folsom Feline Rescue (of course!), I now foster anywhere from one to four kittens or cats.  Once a year, we attend Pet Expo.  Horses, llamas, alpacas, goats, pot-bellied pigs, rats, and various other cat and dog rescue groups are all in attendance.  Hundreds of rattled cats, scores of barking dogs, the constant tattoo of footfalls on the concrete floor, excited voices bouncing off the metal walls, peering faces, and curious, poking fingers, all combine to provide the perfect, stressful environment for the outbreak and spread of upper respiratory.

Exactly ten days from the first day of the three-day expo, my one remaining foster kitten came down with it, along with two more foster kittens I'd brought home before I knew what was to come.  It began innocently enough:  A stray sneeze here, a slightly runny nose there.  But soon  the misery- inducing stuffed sinuses and mucous-filled eyes appeared as, one by one, every single one of my own  felines came down with it including my 14 ½ year old and a feral mom and her six-month old kitten.

I was reduced to wiping runny noses and eyes, and squirting icky pink antibiotic into small mouths and the even smaller mouths of the kittens twice a day for a week - the theory being that, though upper respiratory is a virus, the antibiotic fights secondary, opportunistic bacterial  infections.  My feral mom, though, had to suffer the full effects of the illness.  I could barely touch her now without being clawed; there was no way I was going to try to open that toothy mouth.

One of my cats is a six-year old, prissy female named Vichie, (short for Miss Vicious), named for, on the first day I owned her, biting the vet at the tender age of three months when he gave her a shot.  She was buff colored, her fur as soft and as fine as a rabbit's.

She was so touchy, so defensive that whenever I brought a new kitten into the house, she'd stay mad for weeks.  She voiced her displeasure by hissing, spitting, and scratching her way out of my arms if I attempted to calm her while the innocent kitten lounged nearby.  She was so angry she would actually shake in my arms.  But really, she was a sweet cat - the type to jump in your lap for a quick pet, one who would meow in between purrs when you slicked your hand from her head down to her tail.

After about half my cats had come down with upper respiratory, and I had made belated attempts at a quarantine, Vichie disappeared for over two days, having escaped out the doggie door when I wasn't paying attention.  This was not unusual as she was still mad about the new foster kittens - and the old one, too.  One morning I  went outside, and there she was, sitting in the sun at the end of my gravel driveway, waiting for me to notice her.

I squealed my usual, "Veesh!" and ran to pick her up and hug her to me, attention I knew she loved.  But I was horrified as I bent down to pick her up.  Her nose was crusted almost shut, her eyes swimming in mucus, the sides of her paws stiff with dried mucus from wiping her nose.  The worst was her tail - a section so encrusted, I cut the matted hair out with scissors.  I imagined poor Vichie curled up for hours, her tail serving as a tissue for her streaming nose.

(Continued on page 3)