We had a bit of a crisis on South Street last week. An identity crisis. For a cat. Seriously.
Our sweet (if occasionally ornery) 6-month-old kitten, Georgia, was all set to be spayed a couple weeks ago at the SPCA’s wonderful clinic on College Road.
We had completed and returned all the pre-surgical consent forms online. We provided her name, age, sex, etc.
She would be spayed, microchipped and vaccinated. Easy stuff. Stan dropped her off at 9 a.m. We would pick her up at 3 p.m.
But a worrisome phone call at noon showed up on my phone’s caller ID as “SPCA.” Oh god. What happened? Is Georgia OK?
Virginia, the sweet clinic manager, assured us our cat was fine, but she had some news: “Georgia’s a boy!” Virginia announced.
Whaaaat? No way.
This cat, the tiny little thing that Stan had brought home (from Georgia, hence the name) at 8 weeks old, lies on her back all the time. She lets us rub her belly. She walks directly over our faces whenever it’s the most direct route to wherever she happens to be heading.
There was nothing between HER legs. How could this be?
Turns out, Georgia is a cryptorchid kittie — meaning “his” little testicles had never descended out of the body. And his little pee pee was always concealed by lots of soft, fluffy fur.
It’s a genetic defect that we later learned had also affected Georgia’s half-brother from a prior litter. (Her mom in Georgia was a bit promiscuous, but who are we to judge? She gave us our soft, sweet kitten.)
Not to worry, Virginia at the SPCA assured us. The cat was 100% fine. But instead of spaying her, the vet would neuter him and remove the little male bits we hadn’t known existed.
She had also changed the name on Georgia’s medical chart from Georgia to George.
Upon arrival at the SPCA that afternoon, I suggested we call our cat Boy George, but Stan, who was never a fan of the band Culture Club, was also not a fan of my clever nickname, even though the folks at the vet clinic found it hilarious.
Regardless, we collected a groggy, but otherwise perfectly healthy, kitten. The cat was fine, just a little miffed and confused, trying to figure out what the hell had happened, who had shaved his belly and why he felt like crap.
Stan and I then found ourselves equally confused.
Any pet owner accustomed to saying things like, “Good boy,” “c’mere girl,” and using every other nickname and form of address for their pet knows how difficult it is to break that habit when interacting with an animal of the opposite sex.
Nevertheless, it’s now two weeks later and Georgia/George/Giorgio is safe and sound at home, and none the worse for wear.
But rest assured, our cat has a gender neutral litter box and a loving home, regardless of their pronoun choice or non-binary identity.
(And thanks, SPCA, for taking such good care of the animals in our community.)
