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A Happy Ending
In the mid 70s I adopted a little stray long haired tortie cat, her colours were all smudged together so she was named Pickle (as in Branston). She was probably about a year old and settled in nicely where I was living in Chudleigh, Devon. After a year or so she went missing one night and despite our efforts, calling on neighbours, wandering the streets and posting notices, we never found her.
We had just about given up on her, when, about a month later as I was putting out the bins on a wild wet November night, I happened to notice in the streetlight on the other side of the road, a small bedraggled bundle of fur, it was Pickle. She was thin as a stick with terribly matted fur and was obviously suffering from cat flu judging by the condition of her eyes, nose and mouth. We tended her overnight, keeping her warm and getting a few fluids down her. The next day we took her to the vets who gave her the appropriate treatment, though he said that he thought that her condition was so poor that she wouldn't survive.
Over the weeks we gradually built her up with special diets to stimulate her appetite and she eventually fully recovered.
That cat was with us for the best part of the next twenty years and finally passed away quietly from pure old age aged about 21/22.
Perseverance pays off.
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