Calling all Celts, non-Celts and kittens.

A certain fair lass is in need of all the prayers on both sides of the Irish Sea.

This was not a jigworthy St. Patrick’s Day for our Bonnie.

The trouble started Sunday night, when Danielle’s alarm bells started flashing. It wasn’t anything extraordinary, really: Bonnie was quiet, she seemed “eh,” she threw up just a little, with a bit of blood. But when you’ve loved as many cats as well as Danielle has, you learn to tell the difference between “not quite right” and “hugely honking wrong.” This was the latter.

There was no need to call the Army, the Navy, the Marines or even the Ancient Order of Hibernians. Our one-woman rescue squad raced Bonnie to Dr. Fantastic. The good doctor agreed that Bonnie had An Issue, and scheduled her for an ultrasound and endoscopy on St. Pat’s. We all prayed. We waited. We hoped Danielle had just been overreacting.

She hadn’t.

That ultrasound was intended as a mere precaution, little more than a lucky charm to ensure that Bonnie was strong and stable enough to proceed with the endoscopy. After all, she’d just had an ultrasound. Bonnie’s been a wee mystery of late, losing weight without any cause that we can find, yet seeming happy and healthy and gabby. The recent ultrasound had shown nothing of note. This ultrasound showed that not all was well in Glockamora.

Something had perforated Bonnie’s stomach. Whether cancer, ulcers or evil leprechauns, it had to be addressed — now. There was no time for an endoscopy.

The Tabby’s Place staff was at lunch when this news came through, and together we swooned with sorrow. But it wasn’t time to count Bonnie out. Our strong lass sailed through surgery — which involved Dr. Fantastic earning his name all over again by reconstructing her entire stomach — and is recovering in the ICU as I type these words. Dr. Fantastic and company located, removed and biopsied the ulceration in Bonnie’s tum, and also biopsied some lesions in her liver. Now we wait.

And pray. And pray.

We also look for cats with type B blood. Dr. Fantastic found Bonnie to be anemic — an issue only exacerbated by the surgery and its stresses. Normally, a blood transfusion would be no big deal. Alas, Bonnie’s blood type is as rare as a thirty-seven-leaf clover. Upon receiving the news near the midnight hour, Denise winged to Tabby’s Place to scoop up potential donor cats and zoom them to Dr. Fantastic’s office. Alas, despite Denise’s heroic midnight ride (and midnight cat-wrangling session with amazin’ Jane), Daisy, Rangpurr, Samantha and Boris were all mismatches. Somehow, our very tabby Bonnie has the blood type most often found in “exotics” (Siamese and their ilk).

Although the transfusion isn’t life-threateningly urgent (Bonnie’s anemia is improving sloooowly on its own, and appears to be chronic rather than acute), it would make our girl feel a heckuva lot better.

And that would make us feel a heckuva lot better. Better than a triple rainbow, in fact.

So, kittens, I beseech you: will you pray with us? We’re awaiting Bonnie’s biopsy, awaiting the right donor match, and expecting the best even as we prepare to give our utmost if that’s what it takes. (Danielle, Denise and Jane certainly already have.) In the meantime, Bonnie was blessed and blissed-out by a loving visit from Jane today, who snapped these photos of our sweet girl at Dr. Fantastic’s office.

Bonniest of lasses, I close by praying St. Patrick’s own words for you:

May God’s strength pilot you;
God’s might uphold you,
God’s wisdom guide you,
God’s eye look before you,
God’s ear hear you,
God’s word speak for you,
God’s hand guard you,
God’s way lie before you,
God’s shield protect you,
God’s hosts save you.

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