He lay crouched, shivering in fear, panting in the black night. His hair was wet and matted and I knew immediately Popsicle, our 15-year old cat, had barely survived a fight. Two minutes earlier, I was in a deep sleep when panic filled the house as my 18-year-old, Ariana, woke me at 3 a.m. I grabbed my cell phone and in boxer shorts ran around the pool cage and saw the outline of Popsicle shuddering in fear as he lay in a small fragrant flower garden where the pool cage joins the house. I flicked the phone’s flashlight on. Thoughts raced through my head: Is there a rabid raccoon nearby? What’s wrong with Popsicle? Should we take him to the ER? “I need a flat board and an old towel,” I yelled into the night. I thought I was a combination of Hawkeye Pierce and House MD. “I am not afraid of blood or wounds or bites and I can handle this,” raced through my head. “Between the internet and some antibiotics and attention to any wounds we will get through this,” I said to myself. Popsicle continued panting and moaning. I slowly pet the animal and he seemed to calm. I gently moved the cat onto the towel and like a hammock dragged the towel onto the board. He groaned. I left the small gar...