The Kittens

Okay, by popular demand, I will continue the kitten story!

The kittens were born, my little miracle kittens. I vacillated between two beliefs, either that it was as God had willed it to be, or, the Mother Cat had understood every word that was spoken at the vet's office and took the matter into her own, um, paws.

It was very late at night that I had discovered the kittens had been born, and I did not go poking around looking for them. However, the head of my bed was on the other side of the wall from where the kittens were, and so I listened for their squeaks all night long. Actually, I listened for their squeaks all the time. I was afraid I would hear no more squeaking! I was afraid of many random irrational things regarding their tiny new lives, so much so that I never even tried to find the kittens for five days! And, on the fifth day, I sent my daughter in to look.

She stepped gingerly over to the trunk and craned her head to see behind it. There were four of them, she reported back to me, as I stood cringing and wringing my hands near the securely shut door. I was so afraid she'd find little dead kitten bodies, and had infected her with the same fear. And so I asked her, are they all alive? She thought so. She told me they were all in a pile. She said two of them are black, one of them is grey and black striped with short hair and the other is grey and black striped with long hair. I told her to stay away from them. I was convinced leaving them alone, until they began to crawl out on their own, was the best thing. I don't know why I thought that. I just did.

Sometimes the Mother Cat, being the teenager she was, just wanted out of there, she wanted to boogey. We made her stay. I gradually began to spend more time in there, just sitting, keeping the Mother Cat company, until I finally felt brave enough to look at the kittens myself. I peeked behind the trunk and there was the little grey striped short hair looking back at me. She had adorable striped front legs! (Actually I called them arms, her little striped arms.) In fact, as I watched, the tiny tiger began to try to crawl out of the nest the Mother Cat had made for them. I piled up soft clothing my daughter had grown out of as a barricade. And then I left.

The next time I visited, the Mother Cat had moved the kittens and it took a few minutes to find them. They were in a corner underneath a huge stuffed dog. They were all beginning to move around now, and I noticed the little black ones' eyes were still shut. I was soon to figure out they were shut from the goopy discharge of conjunctivitis. Pink eye, in other words. They also had thick green snot running out of their tiny noses. I brought in a portable electric heater to the room. I thought the best way for them to grow stronger was simply to be warm and safe. I had seen kittens who lived outside with the same pus-filled eyes and snotty noses, and they didn't die. Cats are remarkable survivors and heal very well, my vet friend had told me, and I had decided I was not going to compromise their developing immune systems with antibiotics. I had made the same decison with my daughter countless times. Instead of pills, they would get care, and they would get better naturally. I brought home some tea bags made with herbs especially for eye care and made an eye wash with that. I first began handling the kittens by picking them up and washing their eyes. They all had the goopy green stuff to varying degrees, Mother Cat included, but the black bears, as I called them, were the worst with their eyes glued shut. The tea worked too. (It was made from green tea, chamomile, calendula petals, and rose petals.)

The more time I spent with the kittens, the fonder I grew of them. Fond to the point of realizing I could never give them away. In fact, I had secretly promised the little tiger with the striped arms that I would never give her away, not ever. (Yes, her. The two tigers were females and the two little black bears were males. Sometimes they would sleep entwined in each other's arms. Too cute!!! Just too cute.) We decided my daughter would name the females, and I would name the males. (She had also named the Mother Cat, since she was the main reason the cat had come in the house in the first place.)

See what a soft hearted sucker I am? Those kittens are 2 years old now. They were born on April 23. When I went to church the next day and told my vet friend the kittens had been born, I could tell by the look in her eyes she did not quite believe me. She knew I was uncertain about the spaying. I still am not sure if she believes me.

I am glad we kept them, for many reasons. The long haired grey tiger, Beatrice, has a very bad heart. The vet is surprised she has lived this long. We are too. We never had her spayed because the surgery would kill her. The vet said it was the worst heart she has ever heard. I think she might still be alive because she is still in the same house she was born in and has never experienced the extreme stress of leaving her litter mates and her home. We did almost lose her about a year ago. She got very weak and refused to eat. I was certain she was going to die, and on my way to work one morning I stopped by to see my pastor to ask her if she would help me bury her when the time came. I invited her to come visit her that afternoon so she could at least meet her before she was dead. My daughter got home from school that day, and decided to make a hard boiled egg for Beatrice. I found her lying on my bed with the cat on her chest, contentedly eating pieces of the egg. It was like a miracle cure. We feed Beatrice half a hard boiled egg every day now, along with her dry food. She also takes heart medicine that regulates her blood pressure. She can be quite fierce, especially when another cat jumps up on my bed, a place she has claimed as her own. I call her a little dragon, though she really is quite frail and is not very active. I used to be afraid I'd find her dead body on the floor somewhere when I hadn't seen her for awhile. I still do, especially when she has made herself scarce and I haven't been able to give her her medicine.

The other little female, Emma, isn't very bright. She runs into doors and walls and our legs and feet. I think she would have been hit by a car by now for certain were she living outside. She is that accident prone. She is skittish and odd. She pees on the floor in selected corners when she wants me to feed her. I have treated those spots with all kinds of cleansers and enzymes and even left pieces of smelly soap on the spots but she persists. She really is kind of stupid. But so sweet and affectionate and cute! My daughter loves her. She is the smallest of the four, and has large green eyes.

I gave the little black bears names I would have given sons had I had any. One of them is named Jack after my friend's grandson. He was playing Jesus in a Sunday School Pageant at church and he was so cute--in a devilish sort of way, I know what the boy is like--and so I named the outgoing, friendly and very vocal male after him. He is the little troublemaker. The other male I named Luke after one of my favorite Gospels in the Bible. Luke is very large and very slow and very sweet and sleeps a lot. He is very quiet. His back legs don't work so good. He acts surprised when I pay attention to him, as if he never expects to be noticed. I can honestly say that cat really loves me. Some nights he runs as fast as he can ahead of me when I go to bed so that he can sleep in there with me too.

Neither of the boys has much going on in the brains department either. I think the Mother Cat's questionable diet and lifestyle--being a young stray out in the cold--contributed to all that. She wasn't exactly on a supremo prenatal diet! But she was a good mother, always, patient and loving with the kittens until I finally had her spayed when the little ones were about 4 months old. Towards my daughter and me, she acts ever loving and grateful. She knows we rescued her from a hard life. And the little black bears are so sweet and affectionate, just like their sisters, and they all have very different and distinct personalities. They are all very much little characters. That is not to say they aren't sometimes little monsters and that I don't chase after them yelling how much I hate those fucking cats (as I write this Emma and Jack, the true little monsters, are re-arranging the dirty dishes in the dish pan, setting up quite a clatter, trying to lick molecules of food off the utensils). Even so, I often say to my daughter, when she bemoans our houseful of cats, "How could you ever pick which one to give away? Huh? Tell me--which one would you give away?"

So, yes! I am crazy! 175% certifiable. I have nothing to offer in my own defense.


Until next time, I remain, your friend, Rozenkraai