“A heart murmur?”
Greg said the words as if repeating them might change their meaning.
I watched him grip the phone tighter.
“That doesn’t necessarily mean something terrible,” I said.
He did not look at me.
“What exactly did they say?”
“That the veterinarian heard it more clearly this morning.”
“More clearly than last night?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t she hear it then?”
“He was cold. Weak. They were focused on stabilizing him.”
Greg began pacing.
Susan slept in the warmed box near the rocking chair, unaware that her brother had abruptly become the center of our entire morning.
“What kind of murmur?”
“They don’t know yet.”
“What grade?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ask?”
“No, Greg. You were on the phone.”
He stopped.
Right.
For one second he looked embarrassed.
Then worry erased it.
“They’re transferring him to the specialty clinic across town.”
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
“I’m going.”
“I assumed.”
“You don’t have to.”
I stared at him.
He caught himself.
“Right. Sorry.”
He had begun doing that more often: hearing the old habit after it left his mouth.
Small progress.
Not enough to quiet him now.
He picked up the rescue notebook, flipped to Steve’s weight chart, then set it down again.
“What could cause a murmur in a kitten?”
I knew better than to guess.
“I don’t know.”
He reached for his phone.
“No internet.”
His head snapped toward me.
“Why?”
“Because you will turn one sentence into fourteen diseases before breakfast.”
“I can read medical information without panicking.”
“You once convinced yourself a numb thumb meant a spinal tumor.”
“It lasted three days.”
“You had slept on your hand.”
He frowned.
“That doesn’t mean I was wrong to investigate.”
“It means I’m confiscating your phone if you type ‘kitten heart murmur prognosis.’”
Greg gave me a look.
Then he slid the phone into his pocket.
“Fine.”
A moment later he took it back out.
“Greg.”
“I’m checking the time.”
“You own a watch.”
He stared at his wrist.
He was wearing one.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No.”
His voice softened.
“I really don’t.”
That simple answer carried more weight than it would have a week earlier.
I went to make coffee.
Behind me, Greg sat beside Susan.
He did not touch her.
He simply watched.
I knew what he was thinking.
Two kittens had been found together.
One was thriving.
One was not.
Care had been equal.
Results were not.
That was a kind of unfairness Greg struggled to tolerate.
By noon, he had packed everything Steve might conceivably need at the specialty clinic.
Blanket.
Feeding chart.
Formula.
Extra towel.
Photographs of the hole where we found them.
I stopped him there.
“Why do they need photographs of the flower bed?”
“In case exposure is relevant.”
“Greg.”
“I don’t know what specialists ask.”
“They are cardiologists, not crime-scene investigators.”
He removed the photos.
Reluctantly.
Denise met us at the rescue before the transfer.
She had Steve in a carrier lined with a clean fleece blanket.
When Greg saw him, his entire face changed.
“Hey.”
He crouched.
Steve lifted his head.
Barely, but enough.
Greg put one finger through the carrier door.
The kitten sniffed him.
“That’s my guy.”
Denise looked at me.
I saw concern there.
Not about Steve.
About Greg.
She had seen this before.
Perhaps every rescue had.
People arrived wanting to help animals and discovered their own wounds waiting in the cages.
“How’s he feeding?” Greg asked.
“Better.”
“Temperature?”
“Normal.”
“Weight?”
“Two thirty-six.”
Greg did the math instantly.
“Eight grams up.”
“Correct.”
Relief crossed his face.
“So the murmur could be nothing.”
Denise chose her words carefully.
“It could be innocent.”
“But?”
“It could also be structural.”
Greg’s jaw tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“The specialist will explain.”
He stood.
“I hate when everyone says that.”
“I know.”
“You know more than you’re telling me.”
“I know possibilities.”
“Tell me.”
Denise glanced at me.
I shook my head slightly.
Not because Greg shouldn’t know.
Because guessing before the test would give him something else to obsess over.
“Today,” Denise said, “your job is to get him there.”
Greg almost laughed.
“My job.”
“Yes.”
That word worked on him.
He took the carrier.
The specialty clinic was twenty-five minutes away.
Greg held Steve on his lap while I drove.
That arrangement had been my decision.
I did not trust Greg behind the wheel with that much worry in his body.
He objected for roughly twelve seconds.
Then Steve moved under the blanket and Greg forgot the argument.
“You’re stronger today,” he whispered.
I kept my eyes on traffic.
“He is.”
“You think?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not just saying that?”
“No.”
Greg rubbed one finger over the carrier mesh.
“He looks tiny.”
“He is tiny.”
“He was louder yesterday.”
“You were complaining yesterday that he screamed constantly.”
“I was not complaining.”
“You called him an air-raid siren with paws.”
“That was affectionate.”
At the clinic, a receptionist led us into a consultation room.
The walls displayed photographs of dogs and cats wearing tiny holiday costumes.
Greg examined none of them.
Dr. Singh arrived with Steve’s chart.
She was perhaps forty, composed, direct, and apparently immune to Greg’s instinct to interrogate.
She shook our hands.
“You’re Steve’s foster family?”
“For now,” I said.
Greg hesitated before agreeing.
“For now.”
Dr. Singh sat.
“I examined him before coming in.”
Greg leaned forward.
“And?”
“He does have a murmur.”
“How serious?”
“We need imaging to answer that.”
“What are the possibilities?”
She described them without drama.
Some murmurs in very young animals disappeared as they grew.
Others reflected congenital abnormalities.
An echocardiogram would show the structure and blood flow through Steve’s heart.
Greg listened without interrupting for nearly a full minute.
Then the questions began.
Would he need sedation?
Was sedation dangerous at his size?
Would feeding beforehand matter?
How long would the scan take?
Would it hurt?
Dr. Singh answered every question.
I watched Greg take notes.
Not because he distrusted her.
Because writing gave his hands something to do.
Finally Dr. Singh said, “We can perform the echocardiogram today.”
Greg looked relieved.
“Good.”
“There is one practical issue.”
His expression changed.
“What?”
“The rescue approved basic stabilization, but specialized cardiac imaging isn’t fully covered by their emergency budget.”
Denise had warned us expenses could arise.
Still, I felt my stomach tighten.
“How much?” I asked.
Dr. Singh gave us the estimate.
It was not catastrophic.
It was also not small.
Greg answered before I did.
“Do it.”
I looked at him.
Dr. Singh waited.
“Greg.”
“What?”
“We should talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Yes, there is.”
“He needs the test.”
“I agree.”
“Then—”
“We still discuss spending that amount of money.”
His face changed.
Not anger.
Shock.
As though I had reduced Steve to a line item.
“That sounds cold.”
“It is not cold to talk to your spouse before spending a large amount.”
“He could have a heart defect.”
“I heard her.”
“And you want to debate money?”
“I want us to make the choice together.”
Dr. Singh quietly stood.
“I’ll give you a few minutes.”
After she left, Greg turned toward me.
“You know what I’m going to say.”
“Yes.”
“So why waste time?”
“Because this is exactly what we’ve been talking about.”
He stared.
“You decide you’re responsible. Then you decide responsibility gives you authority.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It is.”
“He has nobody else.”
“He has a rescue organization.”
“They can’t pay for the test.”
“They can pay for part.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes.”
I lowered my voice.
“You are already treating him as if he belongs to you.”
Greg looked toward the door.
“He belongs to someone.”
“For six to eight weeks.”
“Maybe.”
There it was.
Maybe.
The word hung between us.
“What does that mean?”
He said nothing.
“Greg.”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
He rubbed both hands across his face.
“What if nobody wants a kitten with a heart problem?”
I understood.
“You’ve thought about keeping him.”
“No.”
“That was a very fast no.”
“I’m saying hypothetically.”
“You hate hypotheticals.”
“I hate yours.”
I leaned back.
“Do you want to adopt Steve?”
Greg looked stricken.
“I don’t want him sick.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
He stood and walked to the window.
Outside, cars moved through the clinic parking lot.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s honest.”
“If he needs long-term care—”
“Greg.”
He closed his eyes.
“Right.”
Not our decision yet.
Not our job yet.
He turned back.
“Can we please do the scan?”
“Yes.”
Relief flooded his face.
“But together.”
He nodded.
“Together.”
We approved the echocardiogram.
The waiting took forty-seven minutes.
Greg checked the clock nineteen times.
I counted.
When Dr. Singh returned, she sat again with Steve’s images displayed on a tablet.
Greg’s hand found mine.
“There is an abnormality,” she said.
His fingers tightened.
She pointed to the image.
“One vessel has not closed the way it normally should after birth.”
Greg stared at the screen.
“Can it close later?”
“Possibly, but at this stage I would not count on that.”
“What does it do?”
“It allows blood to flow in a direction it shouldn’t.”
“Can it kill him?”
I felt Greg tense beside me.
Dr. Singh did not soften the answer.
“If it becomes severe and remains untreated, it can lead to heart failure.”
Greg went pale.
“But,” she added, “this is often treatable.”
He looked up.
“How?”
“Depending on his size and how he develops, medication may help temporarily. Definitive treatment can involve a procedure to close the abnormal vessel.”
“Surgery?”
“In some cases.”
“When?”
“Not today.”
“But eventually.”
“Possibly.”
Greg released my hand and leaned forward.
“What are his chances?”
Dr. Singh paused.
“If he continues gaining weight and remains stable, we have good reasons to be hopeful.”
Hopeful.
Not guaranteed.
Greg hated language like that.
But this time he did not push.
Instead he looked at Steve through the small window in the treatment-room door.
“When can he come home?”
“Tonight, if he continues feeding.”
Home.
Neither of us corrected him.
On the drive back, Greg held the empty carrier because Steve would remain at the clinic until evening.
For ten minutes he said nothing.
Then he asked, “What would you do?”
“About what?”
“If he needs surgery.”
“We’ll decide when we know.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
He stared through the windshield.
“I don’t want to wait until he’s ours emotionally and then discover we can’t help him.”
I looked at him.
“He’s already yours emotionally.”
Greg said nothing.
That evening, Steve came back to us with medication, instructions, and another follow-up appointment.
Susan greeted him by climbing directly over his face.
Steve protested loudly.
Greg laughed.
“There he is.”
He settled both kittens into the box.
Then his phone buzzed.
A message from the rescue.
Greg read it.
His smile disappeared.
“What?”
He handed me the phone.
The rescue had received an inquiry from a potential adopter.
Not for both kittens.
For Susan alone.
Greg stared at the box.
We had spent the entire day worrying that Steve might not survive.
Now a different possibility had arrived.
He might survive.
And lose his sister.
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: The First Adoption Inquiry Forced Us to Admit We Had Begun Treating Susan and Steve Like Family Before Either Kitten Was Ours
For Three Weeks Greg Left Our Bed After Midnight, and One Missing Family Keepsake Made His Explanation Impossible to Believe
Part 9 of 24
