Cat Curiosity

 In early January, while taking cardboard boxes down to the recycling bin in our apartment complex's underground parking, I noticed a cat-sized furry animal make a break for the back corner of the garage. Following up on this highly-suspicious occurrence led me to discover, behind a lean-to of plywood and sections of drywall, a cat [cats tend to be cat-sized, so I wasn't exactly surprised]. While I had, months earlier, seen a mouse in the garage, I doubted it would keep this feline fed, so I went across the street to the convenience store and bought a can of cat food. 

Thus began a multi-week venture of me feeding the kitty. Though skittish at first, he would purr up a storm once I started scratching his head. I was smitten. He never tried to bite me. He never tried to
scratch me. But I could scarcely fail to notice that my nitrile-gloved fingers would come away black with soot and dirt after petting him.  I decided to fix this.

I got some old hand-towels, a torn-up sheet, and a pitcher of warm soapy water. After catching him by his scruff, I took him to the bike storage room where I had set up my supplies, and proceeded to wash him. He wasn't thrilled with this. At one point he escaped my grasp and, while jumping up to catch him again, I rolled my ankle. After 15 seconds of "ouch", I was able to walk on it, and recaptured the cat (who still did not make any attempt to bite or scratch me) to finish the bath. I rubbed him dry, gave him a can of cat food as compensation for his troubles, and cleaned up my work area. 

Didn't think twice about my ankle. I washed my clothes, vacuumed the apartment, and it wasn't until hours later that I thought to look at my foot for signs of injury.

For comparison, look at the next pic a week later when the swelling went down.

It was injured.

For the rest of the weekend I kept it elevated and iced, and limited my activity--because of course it started to hurt after I had seen the damage. Psychosomatics. 

It even bruised the other side!

When my co-workers saw me wearing a brace the following week, they asked how on earth I injured it. I lied. I said I had rolled my ankle going from a squat to a run while exercising. It was just simpler to say that than to explain the unexpected dangers of bathing a stray cat. Who, by the way, was just as dirty the next time I scratched his head. It's hard to stay clean when you live in a lean-to made of trash.

A couple weeks later, I caught him, tied him to me in an improvised baby sling, and took him to a humane rescue because he so deserves a home. It broke my heart.

But not my ankle. X-rays confirmed that.