William tolerated me — that’s the best way I can describe the months that followed. As long as Harry had been in at night, William had been okay. Without him, he wasn’t. The only thing that had ever mattered to William was Harry.
By the six-month mark there was a softening. He still had limited freedom outside, but something was easing. It was summer now, August, and unbearably hot.
One Friday night I went out with friends. William was safe in the house. When I came home, the heat was oppressive, so I opened two windows.
During the night William jumped onto the bed, agitated. Not big leaps — small, sharp jumps, like electric shocks. He was nervous, on edge, scared. I was still fuzzy from the night before and didn’t understand what was happening. I thought he might be desperate to go outside.
I opened the door — and stopped.
A snake.
Not just any snake.
A blunt-nosed viper.
Now I understood. William had been bitten.
Time matters with snake bites. Cats rarely survive them. The only emergency vet was across town, about fifteen miles away. They were waiting.
I got William into his carrier — but the snake was still in the house. With other cats around, that wasn’t an option. Jasper, my usual viper expert, wasn’t about, so I dealt with it myself. I caught the snake, secured it in a box, and put it in the back seat. William was in the front with me. I drove like my life depended on it, silently hoping I didn’t run into a police check — drink driving is bad enough without a dangerously venomous passenger.
At the clinic, the vet was honest. Cats don’t usually survive bites like this. The next few hours were critical. William was still conscious, and I stayed with him while he was anaesthetised. I wanted him to know I was there as he went to sleep.
By morning, he was still alive.
Because the snake was endangered, I contacted a wildlife rescue centre. They met me near the vet and safely took it off my hands. When they saw it, they told me it was a juvenile — which wasn’t good news. Young vipers don’t regulate venom. They inject everything.
Still, William held on.
He woke while I was there. I called his name. He lifted his head. That was enough.
My own vet agreed to take over his care, and I brought him home. Being blind, weak, and disoriented, I didn’t want unfamiliar smells or voices adding stress. He stayed in my bedroom until he recovered — which he did. He carried a scar, but physically, that was it.
Something else changed.
William became my shadow. He was never far from me, and he still isn’t. The house and garden became his kingdom. He protects it fiercely, not defensively, but proactively. He takes the fight to intruders.
And since that night, he has done something else.
Every winter, around 3am, he comes to bed. I hear him before I feel him — a sound, a small cry. Sometimes he pulls himself up and I lift the duvet so he can climb in, his head on my pillow. On colder nights, he goes in underneath, climbs up from the foot of the bed, and settles properly.
He hates having a cold nose.
Word spread through the rescue community. I had taken in blind kittens at a time when few people would. It wasn’t long before I got a call — a friend of a friend had a blind kitten.
Could I help?