Sixteen in the belly, below the belt by Carolyn Muir Helfenstein
Instinctively her ears pressed back against her skull as she hissed at imagined enemies. Her tail twitched erratically. Saliva, oozing from between her pin-sharp teeth settled momentarily on her swollen gums and then fell to the cold, damp, cement floor of the passageway. Her eyes blinked and blinked again as if she were trying to comprehend all that was happening to her.
It was 6 a.m.
Harry slipped from the warmth of the family kitchen, closing the door tightly as he stepped out into the hundred-year-old back kitchen with its dirt floors and smells of things old, very old. The cedar plank walls of this original structure stood firm despite the century of winter storms; and, as yet another storm raged that morning, those planks rattled and shook with the maddening enthusiasm of a belly dancer.
The wind howled and pressed against his chest as he pried open the side door and leaned into the blowing snow. He knew Carol’s day would soon begin, no alarm clock necessary; their three-year-old twins, nestled in their beds a few feet down the hallway, were her wake-up call.
A sudden veil of wind-borne snow obscured what should have been the large hip-roofed barn. He stepped out, braving the bitter cold, his six-foot frame plunging thigh-deep into heavy snowdrifts that ribboned their driveway until he reached the refuge of the barn and he could actually breathe again.
The gray cat’s ears registered the thud of boots on the packed snow.
Harry strained with the weight of each huge shovelful of snow as he cleared the barn doorway.
The dim light coming from the yard lamp brightened the entranceway just enough for him to find the light switch. He listened to the barn sounds. Everything seemed OK.
A projectile now, the gray cat launched her rigid body. Her outstretched claws and needle-sharp teeth dug deep through thick jeans and flesh.
She hung on, her jaws locked in final satisfaction.
Harry froze in shock; but with the spontaneous need to retaliate, even as the piercing pain from all those teeth and all ten claws deepened, he grabbed the cat and hurled her down the barn passageway all the while releasing his anger, “Damn, damn you, cat! What the hell!”
Harry leaned against the barn wall taking stock, fearing the very worst. But she did not reappear. What did register was the pandemonium of the clanking of metal-on- metal as the bodies of forty Holstein milking cows were banging into their stanchions, their eyes rolling in fear, and their their feet lurching out in all directions on their rubber mats. Their normal, quiet morning routine turned into an uproar.
Harry surveyed the barn and the cattle; he sucked in a deep breath to calm his beating heart and automatically began the simple chore of sweeping away the remnants of the previous night’s feed. That done he began the ritual of morning feeding: enough sweet-smelling corn silage to land three feet square on the concrete floor before each cow’s waiting muzzle, and then an ample scoop of ground oats and barley running down the sides of each pile of silage, like chocolate syrup over a sundae. The cows eagerly stretched their long, skilled tongues, reaching to the very corners of their space to seize the tiniest morsels. That simple daily chore of the morning feeding helped Harry ease the throbbing fear as he considered the events of the past half hour. He took time then to disinfect the wounds.
As he adjusted the first milking machine, Harry leaned against Patsy’s warm, familiar, pungent black and white body. She turned her head to stare at him with those knowing eyes of hers and almost ashamedly, he patted her neck and as she listened, he whispered, “What if that cat is rabid?”
Harry slipped from the warmth of the family kitchen, closing the door tightly as he stepped out into the hundred-year-old back kitchen with its dirt floors and smells of things old, very old. The cedar plank walls of this original structure stood firm despite the century of winter storms; and, as yet another storm raged that morning, those planks rattled and shook with the maddening enthusiasm of a belly dancer.
The wind howled and pressed against his chest as he pried open the side door and leaned into the blowing snow. He knew Carol’s day would soon begin, no alarm clock necessary; their three-year-old twins, nestled in their beds a few feet down the hallway, were her wake-up call.
A sudden veil of wind-borne snow obscured what should have been the large hip-roofed barn. He stepped out, braving the bitter cold, his six-foot frame plunging thigh-deep into heavy snowdrifts that ribboned their driveway until he reached the refuge of the barn and he could actually breathe again.
The gray cat’s ears registered the thud of boots on the packed snow.
Harry strained with the weight of each huge shovelful of snow as he cleared the barn doorway.
The dim light coming from the yard lamp brightened the entranceway just enough for him to find the light switch. He listened to the barn sounds. Everything seemed OK.
A projectile now, the gray cat launched her rigid body. Her outstretched claws and needle-sharp teeth dug deep through thick jeans and flesh.
She hung on, her jaws locked in final satisfaction.
Harry froze in shock; but with the spontaneous need to retaliate, even as the piercing pain from all those teeth and all ten claws deepened, he grabbed the cat and hurled her down the barn passageway all the while releasing his anger, “Damn, damn you, cat! What the hell!”
Harry leaned against the barn wall taking stock, fearing the very worst. But she did not reappear. What did register was the pandemonium of the clanking of metal-on- metal as the bodies of forty Holstein milking cows were banging into their stanchions, their eyes rolling in fear, and their their feet lurching out in all directions on their rubber mats. Their normal, quiet morning routine turned into an uproar.
Harry surveyed the barn and the cattle; he sucked in a deep breath to calm his beating heart and automatically began the simple chore of sweeping away the remnants of the previous night’s feed. That done he began the ritual of morning feeding: enough sweet-smelling corn silage to land three feet square on the concrete floor before each cow’s waiting muzzle, and then an ample scoop of ground oats and barley running down the sides of each pile of silage, like chocolate syrup over a sundae. The cows eagerly stretched their long, skilled tongues, reaching to the very corners of their space to seize the tiniest morsels. That simple daily chore of the morning feeding helped Harry ease the throbbing fear as he considered the events of the past half hour. He took time then to disinfect the wounds.
As he adjusted the first milking machine, Harry leaned against Patsy’s warm, familiar, pungent black and white body. She turned her head to stare at him with those knowing eyes of hers and almost ashamedly, he patted her neck and as she listened, he whispered, “What if that cat is rabid?”
*****
“Good morning, Kiddo. A coffee for a weary man?”
Knowing the answer, Carol poured the freshly made coffee into a mug and walked over to her husband, placing a friendly kiss on his rough cheek. His blue eyes shone and he kissed her ear. This was their morning ritual; she turned and leaned heavily into him, feeling him close.
Desperate to get it over with, Harry stepped away and blurted out the words, whispered, really, so the children wouldn't hear. "The gray cat bit me in the leg this morning. It was pretty bad. I think she may be rabid.”
Carol spun around, her fingers touching his face as if to be assured that he was all right.
“Hang on, hang on!” He wrapped her familiar body in his strong arms and then looked into those deep brown eyes.
“I’m making some phone calls, right now. OK? I’m fine.”
*****
Carol heard Suzie howl in anger from the family room just a few feet from the kitchen table. Robbie had stolen his sister's blocks and she was furious. Carol settled the dispute with a stern look and a kiss to each - even as the word rabies was ringing in her ears.
*****
Harry made the necessary phone call to Health of Animals.
“We have to save the head?
“Yes, I can, Steve.
“Well, I have to find her first."
Carol listened intently.
“Pardon? Kill the other cats too?
"No, our dog has been inoculated."
"Yes, I’ll phone back.”
He had almost hung up. “Oh, really? But in this storm?"
"Oh."
"Today.”
He placed the receiver back on the hook without a word.
Husband and wife turned and stared at the snow-splattered kitchen windows and their hearts sank; they knew only too well that when the snow on those windows obliterated any vestige of their outside world, the storm was very bad.
*****
At the other end of that telephone call the agent for the Health of Animals knew exactly what was ahead for this young man. Sixteen needles in the belly. One a day, for sixteen days. And if he missed one needle, he would be advised to start over. That was the best the Health of Animals could offer in the sixties, for someone bitten by a rabid animal.
*****
“Hi kids, who’s going to give Daddy a kiss?”
Peals of laughter filled the room as the two grabbed Harry’s legs hugging them and kissing his knees.
“Whoa! Ouch, that hurts. Careful. Daddy has a sore leg, Sweeties!”
With their morning greeting over, the two raced back to watch TV's Friendly Giant.
Harry looked directly into Carol’s eyes. “Kiddo, we have some things to do, some things to talk about. That was the Health of Animals, of course. I have to find the gray cat and kill her and as you may have guessed, save the head. They will examine it for rabies.”
When the phone rang the next day, they knew the worst. “Harry, we advise you of the importance of continuing the needles. The cat was definitely rabid.”
A relentless new routine began. After the morning milking, but before breakfast, Harry would steel himself to clear their laneway of snow with their tractor and snow blower. More chores followed; and then next was the harsh reality of the drive to the hospital through snow driven by unrelenting westerly winds. And then? One more needle in the belly, below the belt.
With each needle his strength waned.
Nine days into the treatments, with five needle marks on the left side of his belly and four on the right, always below the belt, Harry struggled to continue the milking and the after-breakfast chores. In a gesture of good will, the milk truck driver drove in and out the laneway three times in a row one morning, pounding the snow into a paved highway. However the winds continued.
By Day Ten, Harry could no longer face the routine work in the barn and to Carol’s great relief, he called around until he found a replacement. With that settled and his bed drawing him to surrender to the need for rest, nature played one more trick.
It was Day Twelve and even as the weather seemed to be improving, a second storm that had been brewing over the lake for days, unexpectedly dropped tons of heavy new snow on the entire area over night. Thankfully, Albert, the relief help, never missed a morning at the barn but he made it clear to Carol, “This is man’s business.”
Carol knew enough to leave him alone.
It was Day Thirteen. Harry rose from his bed to face the plugged laneway as Albert tackled the barn work. Four more trips to go. Making it to the shed that morning was a victory in itself. He fought his way up and unto the seat of the tractor and turned the key. With relief he listened to the diesel motor chugging to life, but what followed was a sickening shudder and a silence that cut through his heart. He willed the motor to catch again. Nothing. Nothing. He crawled down from the big red machine, rolled the shed doors across and hooked them. Dejection was written all over his bent form and he reeled back toward the house.
"The tractor’s dead,” was all he could whisper to Carol.
Carol watched Harry disappear upstairs. She moved fast to the phone.
“Pat, I really need your help,” she explained to her neighbour.
When Harry surfaced with a start twenty minutes later, he heard the roar of a powerful tractor and he realized who it was and who had made that call for help. With visions of Pat's machine making short work of his laneway, he collapsed back into bed. Now all he had to do was get to the hospital and back. That he could do. He slept.
Highway patrols were on standby during this second storm. A young man with a broken arm was rushed to the doctor along the same highway on Day Fourteen, and on Day Fifteen a young woman, ready to deliver her first child, made the same long journey. During those final harrowing drives, Harry’s determination never faltered. Carol stood firm. She and the children watched out the window as Harry left each day.
“There goes Daddy to Wingham,” said Suzie.
“Daddy’s got a sore tummy,” added Robbie.
“Yes, Robbie, Daddy has a sore tummy.”
“Why is it so sore, Mommy?” Suzie asked.
“Well,” she sighed. No use hiding the truth. “One of the barn cats was sick, and she bit Daddy. Now Daddy is sick. The doctor needs to see him every day until he’s better.”
“Does he give Daddy a needle?”
“Yes, he does, Robbie.”
“Is Daddy better now?”
The twins, almost mirror images of each other in their cozy, red flannel sleepers, reached up to their Daddy. One set of blue eyes, one set of brown. Even at their tender age, they could see their Daddy was better.
“Yes, I am better.”
He scooped his son and daughter into his arms and he kissed each on the nose. They giggled. He ignored that their toes dug into his sore belly and he twirled them around and around and they laughed and they yelled, “More Daddy; more circles.”
He twirled them again, enjoying their warm bodies against his chest, their soft, freshly-washed hair tickling his nose, the smell of baby oil and the music of their endless giggles as he twirled them gently some more.
*****
A year later, someone asked him, "Wouldn't it have been safer for you to just stay in Wingham until the needles were finished?"
Harry gazed at the man who had asked the question. He took a moment to think back to that evening when he held his children so close to his heart. He heard their giggling once more; he smelled the baby oil; he felt their baby toes digging in. He could see Carol.
He was about to answer.
Instead, he just shook his head and he smiled.
