Column: The world needs more Evie's

Before the crises that led to one of my cats, Memphis, being put to sleep and his brother Skeets perilously close to following in his footsteps, I was like most people — completely unaware that there were furry, four-legged blood donors playing a part in critical pet care.

They are the unsung heroes and life-saving blood donors who give a little of themselves so that others may live to run, jump and cuddle another day.

Until faced with my own veterinary crisis, it simply never occurred to me that pet blood needs were just like that of people’s — humans in need of blood relying on human donors, the same being true for animals.

I’m glad to know and now be able to share the story, but sincerely wish I had come to know about it for any other reason.

My story started June 6, when after filing an early morning traffic story, I rushed Memphis to Neighborhood Veterinary Center.

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At 3 a.m. that morning, I was awoken to sounds of Memphis howling in pain, with a pool of drool having collected on my comforter.

It’s a scene that would replay itself just before I left for the office that morning — the terrifyingly painful yowls filling my ears as I got ready for work, determined to cut and run as soon as possible to get Memphis to treatment.

The incident followed a week of him eating less, sleeping more and hiding. His brother Skeets was starting to exhibit similar behaviors — issues I attributed to our battle with fleas that had been treatment resistant.

But when Memphis began howling, then going limp, I knew something far worse was happening.

As he howled during the harrowing drive to the Nederland hospital that morning, I was beyond terrified for what would await.

Others in the lobby giggled as Memphis’s loud cries pierced the waiting room.

“Oh, listen to the funny kitty,” one woman told a child.

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In my head ran words I dared not say out loud — not only because they didn’t know, but because they were words I didn’t want to believe were true.

“Please stop laughing, this isn’t funny — I think he’s dying,” I thought.

That was something staff at NVC confirmed wasn’t just in my head — it was reality.

Had I remained at work that day, taking Memphis for treatment later, more than likely I would have returned home to him already gone, having suffered a painful death all alone.

Memphis was immediately rushed to the back upon our arrival. When emergency director Dr. Blake Foskey came into my room, his demeanor spoke a thousand words well before his mouth opened, uttering the words that the news was dire.

Bloodwork showed Memphis was morbidly anemic — his organs shutting down despite emergency measures — and they’d found a hard, likely cancerous and untreatable, tumor under his tongue.

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Multiple blood transfusions may save him, but the outlook wasn’t good. And with the advanced state of his oral cancer, he’d likely be suffering until finally succumbing. There was only one truly humane choice, and that was to end his pain.

That was one of the worst, hardest days of my life, and when I got home and saw that Skeets hadn’t eaten at all, and again didn’t eat the following day, I was back at the hospital June 8.

My heart sank when I heard the technician in the hallway tell a doctor she had a cat in room 3 that appeared to be critical.

Skeets was also anemic — though not as critically as Memphis — and an abnormal heart rhythm was detected.

Again, I was told he would need at least one blood transfusion, possibly two, to save him. This time I said yes — everything in me determined to save at least one of my buddies.

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Skeets was hospitalized for three days — the first of which was giving him fluid and oxygen while emergency staff waited to find a feline blood donor. Their supply was empty, and many of the staff’s usual donor cats weren’t able to donate again.

That’s when veterinary technician Taylor Frusha stepped in and said, “I have a cat.”

Evangeline, or Evie as she’s known to all, had just turned one — the minimum age required to donate.

She was healthy, strong and a type-A match to my Skeets.

Fusha was nearly done with her shift for the day, but was told, “don’t clock out, go get your cat and bring her here now,” she recalled. The need for blood was imminent and there was no time to waste.

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Literally, that moment spelled the difference between Skeets living and dying.

I remember waiting by the phone to hear if any donors had been located, relieved when the hospital informed me that a transfusion was imminent.

Two days into his three-day hospital stay, I went to visit.

He was skittish, and around his head, the Elizabethan-esque “cone of shame” — as staff jokingly call it — was wrapped to prevent him from pulling out his catheter.

During my visit, Frusha walked into the room to check on us, then told me that her cat Evie had been his donor.

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I nearly broke down in tears again, coming face to face with the very person who’d put their own pet through some drama to help save mine.

She showed me photos of Evie donating and then one of my Skeets getting her blood transfused into him.

A day and a half later, I had Skeets in my car, taking him home.

That experience set me on a journey to write about the four-legged furry heroes like Evie that until then I’d had no idea existed. I wanted to share their story and that of the need for blood, which sometimes exceeds the ability of the staff’s own pets to provide as often as needed.

I got to meet Evie weeks later when I returned to do the story that ran in Sunday's Enterprise, and it was so special to see her in person. Skeets was the recipient of her first ever blood donation, so I feel like that bond is even more special.

And if Skeets begins acting more frisky than his usual self, now I know that’s just Evie’s way of saying hello.