by Ruth Hay
I opened my eyes and re-oriented myself. The only birds nearby me in Cornwall were small sparrows perched in the bushes.
Something, however, made me feel uneasy.
I closed my eyes attempting to regain my composure.
There it was again!
I sat up and looked around me. What would a cat be doing in this place? I had not even glimpsed one cat in all my time in Perranporth. Suddenly that fact appeared to me to be peculiar as if cats were avoiding me instead of being drawn into my orbit as had happened so many times in my experience.
The river meandered by. A breeze stirred the leaves above my head but there was no recapturing my previous sense of peace.
This time the plaintive sound was almost like a baby’s hungry cry.
There is an instinctive response in the female of the human species. It was implanted deep inside us in order to guarantee the preservation our kind. It is the unavoidable impulse to react immediately to the sound of a child’s cry.
I knew there was no possibility of a child nearby, but I reacted to the tiny sound of a cat in much the same way as to a real child.
Still partially disbelieving my ears, I stood and began to comb the grass along the riverbank.
I moved slowly and carefully. With each step, my fear grew. What tiny creature, barely able to make a sound, could be here in this remote spot?
What could I do to help if I found it?
To my horror, I almost stepped on a small mouse-like body curled on top of a fallen leaf. I looked closely. All my senses were on alert.
This was no mouse.
This was the smallest, wettest, saddest little kitten, I had ever seen.
I gasped. This is what I had feared, before I even knew what to fear.
My senses went into overdrive. I did not hesitate. I bent down and scooped up the little body. It lay within the palm of my hand and did not move.
Alive or dead, I responded. I surely was the only person to hear this creature’s dying gasp, so I was impelled to do something, anything.
I carefully placed the little thing into the inner pocket of my jacket and carefully zipped it up. I felt the icy cold of the wet body against my chest but I cared nothing for the discomfort.
My instinct was to return home as soon as possible but something made me hesitate.
How had this happened? One tiny kitten on a riverbank far from anywhere?
How? Why?
I looked around me for any clue to this mystery……………. and I found it, although the finding was beyond my belief.
In the river, near the bank, lay a black bag with a drawstring around the neck. There were lumps inside that bag and I knew without looking closer, that more tiny creatures had been abandoned to a drowning death inside that grim bag. How one of those had escaped to breathe its last on land, was incomprehensible to me.
I was now shaking with anger. Had I found the person responsible for this action I would have taken up a rock and smashed it on his or her hands.
I could do only one thing.
With incredible care, I lifted the bag out of the river and placed it down on the grass verge.
I carefully pulled open the drawstring, knowing there was nothing I could do for the bodies inside.
I left the bag there for later inspection, and hastened back the way I had come. If there was the least chance of rescuing this one little one, lying against my body, I must make the attempt despite my doubts.
Seven
I dared not run with my little cargo inside my light jacket, but I made my way downhill as fast as I could. My heart thumped and my mind tried to black out what I had seen. The dreadful scene by the river would haunt me forever.
As I reached my street, intending to dig a grave to honour the one tiny creature who had attempted survival, I noticed somewhere in the background an unusual noise of instruments and the voices of many people rising up from the town below me. I ignored that for now and went into my house to change my clothes. My jacket and shirt were soaked through and I must remove the tiny body and prepare it for burial.
With trembling hands, I emptied out my inner pocket and marvelled again that a creature so small as to fit in the palm of one hand, could have been so brave in its last moments. I wanted to weep, but I knew that storm of tears would come later.
With tender care, I fetched a hand towel from the bathroom to wrap the body for burial.
I gently stroked the sodden baby fluff of its coat and folded the towel over it.
As I turned away to find a warm sweater for myself, I heard again the sound that had first drawn me toward the river’s edge.
I thought my brain was now revisiting the scene that was, already, indelibly imprinted in stark detail, on my mind. I shook my head to banish the coming pain.
Then it struck me.
Was it even possible that this kit ….. kitten? No, the word that felt appropriate was catling….. had survived its ordeal? If so, it had to be a miracle.
I uncovered the body and looked for another sign of life, placing one finger gently on the little chest to feel for a pulse.
I jerked when I felt a tiny flutter.
Perhaps?
At once, it was imperative to fan this spark into life. I picked up the catling and went to the sunny windowsill where a cushion sat, warmed in the sun. I did not know whether to gently massage or simply wait and watch. I was in a dither of uncertainty. Either choice might be damaging.
After what felt like an age of watching, the fluff began to dry out in the sun and I saw a twitch of the miniscule ears still folded near the skull. The tiny mouth opened and shut but there was no sound and the eyes remained closed.
Food? A necessity of life.
What food did I have to feed this creature?
Milk.
I had no fear that the catling would fall from its perch on the windowsill. It did not have the strength for that, or for any natural action. I went to the kitchen and poured milk into a saucer. It was not warm enough to use, so I quickly heated water in the kettle and poured a few drops into the milk, all the time worrying that I was risking disaster.
With the saucer in my hand, the next problem was how to administer the milk.
The only solution that presented itself to me, was to dip my pinkie finger into the milk and hope to transfer a drop into the catling’s open mouth.
But, what if it choked?
It was too late for that worry. Something must be done to restore a semblance of life, even if temporarily.
I continued with the milk dripping process.
So intense was I on this act of mercy that it was some minutes before I recognized a change.
The fluff of the catling’s coat was drying and the tiny mouth was responding to the sustenance by opening to my finger.
My back was in spasm from maintaining this bent posture but I continued slowly and steadily until the mouth closed.
What now?
Were my efforts too late?
I began to shake again, but my instincts told me to look more closely.
As I did so, I could see my little lost catling was sleeping.
Breathing and sleeping!
For the first time in what seemed like hours, I took a deep breath myself, and looked around me.
Everything looked the same but I knew everything had changed. I had taken on the responsibility for this tiny creature and now I was obligated to do anything possible to continue to save it; not merely for this moment, and this day, but until the catling was restored to full health.
I sank down onto the nearest chair with my eyes still fixed on the windowsill and its pillowed contents.
Somewhere in my memory was stored the information that tiny creatures removed from a mother’s care, required feeding every two hours or less. I tried to put this into my daily routine and came up with a blank.
How could I stand over the catling with finger poised and hope to stay awake during the night?
What if cow’s milk was not s
ufficient for growth?
I needed to consult with an animal expert, but I did not dare to leave the tiny creature for long. When the sun moved from the windowsill, so must I move the catling to a warmer location.
I took several more deep breaths and tried to think clearly.
Just then, I heard a noise outside in the street. Something unusual was happening there.
I glanced out of the window and saw one of my neighbours approaching the nearest house to me, with two children in tow. I had not paid much attention to these children before. One of them was holding a flag and waving it over his head. The flag was a white cross on a black field, an unusual looking flag for a child to have.
At once, I dismissed this sight, and focussed on the smaller girl. I remembered a glimpse of this child walking with a pram and a doll.
A doll! Somewhere in the past, I saw a photograph or a television program that showed a child pretending to feed a doll with a small plastic imitation of a real baby’s bottle.
I took a last look at the windowsill and ran out into the street. I went straight to the mother and apologized for the interruption.
“I need to borrow something from your daughter. Excuse me for the rush but this request is urgent. I hope to explain it all to you later. Can you find a toy feeding bottle and lend it to me?”
To give the woman credit, she saw the look of desperation on my face and responded immediately by going into her house and emerging in two minutes with two plastic bottles in her hand. She delivered them to me with a strange look on her face but no questions, and turned to comfort her daughter who saw the exchange.
By then I was back at the windowsill, with a pan of warmed milk and two washed bottles delivering the sustenance that I prayed would keep my catling alive.
Eight
I spent the remainder of the day with the little one on my knee, on top of the pillow, seated beside the heater, feeding warm milk through the rubber teat on the toy bottle whenever the catling awoke. I could see the change happening before my eyes.
First, she, I presumed it was a female although I really did not know for sure, moved to lie on one side which allowed her to curl up and conserve heat. Next, she gave a kind of shake or shiver, that began near her head and ended at her stub of a tail. I was afraid it was a seizure announcing her imminent demise, but my logical mind asserted itself, and I realized she was trying a natural action that was common to cats. Ramses often did it to set his fur back into place after cleaning. I took this as a good sign, and also thought I should stroke her very gently so as to mimic a mother cat’s tongue cleaning attentions.
I managed to grab some food from the backpack, lying on the floor beside me. I had intended the sandwich to provide my lunch, on a day that had now stretched into what seemed like a year. My desire for a hot drink must be postponed indefinitely.
When I grew sleepy, I realized I must nap on the same time frame as the catling, but sitting on a chair was not the best place for that. Step by step, I moved the centre of operations upstairs. The fan heater was installed by my bed, I propped myself up on pillows with, in my lap, the original pillow from the window, now covered in a towel to absorb the tiny amounts of urine that the catling expelled on a regular basis. Supplies lay nearby on the bedside table. I found a vacuum flask in a kitchen cupboard to keep the milk warm for overnight feedings.
It was not the most comfortable night I ever spent, but as each hour passed and the catling was still surviving, I was imbued with such a feeling of triumph that something had been saved from the awful scene by the riverside, that it made up for the lack of deep sleep.
How long I could continue with this routine, was a matter of some concern.
I had never been a mother. Now I was beginning to understand what that must be like.
A helpless creature in your hands that depends on your skill and good will is an awesome responsibility. This was not my same situation, of course, but it made me think differently about my mother, not for the first time in recent days.
Between dozing lightly and administering warm milk, I tried to form a survival plan.
Catling’s survival was predominant.
My survival was secondary, but equally important in this situation.
There were matters I had to attend to. It was an unusual feeling for me, but I must seek help.
I could not rely totally on my own resources this time.
I cast around for a source of help. I owed an explanation to my neighbour who had come to my rescue. I must start there. If she could manage to take over the feeding schedule for a short period, I could go back to the riverside and do what was required to give a decent burial to the remaining batch of kittens.
I also must enquire if there was a veterinary service available in Perranporth.
When daylight finally arrived, I had made the decision to get help, starting with the nearest source.
Splashing water on my face and quickly changing my clothes, I lifted the cushion where the catling was now sleeping for slightly longer spells, changed the towel, and carefully descended the stairs to the ground level.
I dithered for several minutes, reluctant to leave the tiny creature alone, then decided she was my best advocate for help from strangers. I donned my only coat over my shoulders, and cradled the cushion, feeding bottle and catling inside, in the crook of my arm, leaving the other arm to deal with the doors.
Fortunately, the weather was calm and the sun shone. It was around nine o’clock. I could only hope my neighbour was awake and willing to listen to me.
In a few slow and steady footsteps, I reached the front door of Happy Heights, painted a bright yellow. One tentative knock, a second a little louder, and the door was opened by the boy I had seen waving the flag.
I concealed the catling cushion and asked if I could speak to his mother or father.
“My daddy’s working on the boats. Mummy’s here.”
He remained staring at me, waiting for further instructions.
“Would you please ask your mummy to come to the door?”
He turned away to complete this mission and he was replaced by his sister who looked up at me accusingly.
“Why did you take my toys?”
I was saved from a long explanation about this theft, by the arrival of a young woman with a wooden spoon in her hand, clearly interrupted in some kitchen task.
“Please come inside. I am Pauline. Children, your breakfast is on the table.”
I stepped inside and summoned a smile of thanks. I did not delay but pulled my arm out from the shelter of my coat revealing the cushion and its occupant.
She bent forward in amazement.
“So that’s why you needed the toy bottles! Good gracious me, I never saw such a tiny creature. Where did it come from? Have you been feeding it constantly? How have you managed?”
I felt such relief at her friendly reception that I could have cried. I knew, however, there were many tears stored up, and if started now I might not be able to stop.
I launched at once into the entire sorry tale from beginning to end, finishing with a fervent plea for help.
“I can see you have already plenty on your hands, Pauline, but I………….. ”
Before I could continue, she nodded her head and said, “Of course I will help! Just let me explain a few things to the children then we will figure out what’s needed. I believe a cup of hot tea would be a good first step?”
She vanished and I let a tear trickle down my cheek. How kind people could be! How had I feared human contact for so long? This woman, at least, was a giver rather than a taker.
I perched on the edge of a soft armchair and gathered my strength.
For once, I was not alone.
Pauline returned with a cup of tea which she pressed into my free hand. She relieved me of the cushion and sat in a nearby chair with the children next to her knees while she told them my rescue story, minus the horrid details. Obviously, she had cautioned the children about the vulner
ability of the catling. They stood silently watching with huge eyes, while their mother dripped the milk into the tiny mouth.
“Could I try?” whispered the girl.
“Yes, but not right away. We must be very gentle and careful, and very quiet too. Think of it as a baby just born. We can help our neighbour, but we must be her very special Kitten Sitters.”
This drew a chuckle from the boy. His sister hushed him.
How had I found such a perfect mother as Pauline? Shame covered me that I had neglected common courtesy and never taken the time to introduce myself to her family.
I drank down the sweetened tea and felt energy returning. The catling was safe in these hands. I must see now what I could discover about the crime scene.
A few more words to Pauline and I ran back home to fetch my phone and a trowel. I ran most of the way uphill to the river site and found the black bag exactly where I left it.
I photographed the bag, particularly the letters now showing on the drier side and then dug out a hollow in the soft ground under the tree with the trowel. I stopped to count the tiny bodies. There were seven. I then placed the entire bundle deep into the hole so no predators would find it. I searched the riverbank for a stone large enough to cover the hole and then I washed the dirt off my hands in the river.
I thought I should say a few words over the burial, but my anger had returned and I was not in a frame of mind for kind words.
My return trip downhill was fast. I had some evidence and I meant to pursue whoever was responsible for this crime.
I had no idea where this pursuit would lead me.
Nine
Pauline was still guarding the catling while the children played in the room next door.
She insisted that I sit and eat and she handed over the cushion and its contents while she made some food for me.
I felt my head nodding after my recent strenuous efforts and had to remind myself to stay awake long enough to eat.
The cheese omelette Pauline presented, brought energy back to me and I was able to ask her if she knew of a vet in the town.