by Amy Newmark
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Four newborn kittens,” I replied.
“Not to worry,” she said. “I got the formula and bottles. The vet said they’ll have to be fed every four hours. I’ll come and show you what to do.”
Show me what to do? “Sandra, I don’t know anything about caring for newborn kittens.”
“I’ll help,” she said. “But I work all day, so I can’t look after them full-time.”
And I don’t work all day? I’m a writer. Writers work day and night. Well, sometimes.
“I have to go,” Sandra broke in. “Chris and Jenn just arrived. See you soon.”
I love animals passionately, but being caregiver to four newborn kittens was more than I could handle. I resolved then and there to follow that sage advice, “Just say no.”
I was working on it when the front door opened. “Mom? Come see the kittens,” Chris called from the vestibule.
I went downstairs, silently repeating the “just say no” mantra.
Four tiny kittens lay snuggled together in a basket in Jenn’s arms.
“Where did you find them?” I asked.
“We heard cries coming from the roof of our motel,” Jenn said.
“The guy in the office said a pregnant cat had been hanging around,” Chris jumped in. “He kept chasing her away, but he thought she’d had her kittens on the roof.”
“He said he hadn’t seen her for several days, so he figured she’d been killed on the highway, and now he was stuck dealing with them. We knew what he meant by ‘dealing with them,’” Jenn said ominously.
“I told him we’d look after them,” Chris said. “I borrowed his ladder and got up on the roof. Somehow, the mother cat got inside the air-conditioning unit and had her kittens there. She must have been desperate and thought it was a safe place.”
I blocked out the thought of what might have happened to the kittens if Chris and Jenn hadn’t come along.
At that moment, the smallest kitten gave a faint squeal. Before I knew what I was doing, I reached in and picked it up.
“He’s the runt of the litter,” Jenn said. “He may not survive.”
“Unless he has the best care possible,” Chris added. “Care only a mother can give.”
“I am not a mother cat,” I reminded my son as I wrapped my sweater gently around the unbelievably tiny bit of life in my hands.
The door opened, and Sandra came in. Her eyes went to the sweater-wrapped bundle in my arms. I saw the knowing smiles she, Chris, and Jenn exchanged.
“I brought everything you’ll need for the kittens — formula, feeding bottles, wipes,” Sandra explained. “We’ll work out a schedule, and we’ll all help. Mom, look at them.” She picked up the white one with orange and black markings. The kitten obligingly wobbled her head and managed to look sweet and pathetic at the same time. “How can you resist?”
The bottom line was, I couldn’t.
In no time, the kittens were awake, filling the house with their hungry chorus. My “just say no” mantra vanished in the twitch of a whisker.
That afternoon, Sandra walked me through the steps of kitten care. “They have to be fed every four hours. Then there’s the toileting.” I won’t go into details, but suffice it to say disposable diapers do not work on kittens.
And so I became a kitty mama. If I thought my children had been messy eaters, the kittens outdid them hands… er… paws down. And bathing a kitten is no easy job. Imagine a body so small that it fits into the palm of your hand, with twig-like limbs and paws the size of a dime. Imagine toweling them dry, taking care not to get tiny claws snagged in the cloth.
When I was on my own that night for the ten o’clock feeding, reality hit. There were four of them and only one of me. When one kitten woke up, its hungry cries woke the others. Suddenly, I had four little, pink mouths emitting heart-rending pleas. Begging the one I was feeding to hurry so the others could have their turn fell on deaf ears. Last but not least, every towel and blanket that lined their basket had to be washed because no one was toilet-trained.
Fortunately, as the days went by, I did have help. On alternate days, Sandra took the kittens to the veterinary clinic where the staff argued over who would get to look after the adorable quartet. Strangely, no one offered to do the night shifts, though.
As well as feeding the kittens on schedule, we had to keep track of every gram of formula they drank. I couldn’t bear to list them as Kitten 1, 2, 3 and 4 so I named them — Bailey, Zoli, Chloe, and for the littlest one, the biggest name of all — Leo the Lion-Hearted.
Once named, the kittens developed individual personalities overnight. Leo certainly lived up to his name. His heart stopped twice, thankfully when he was in my daughter’s care. Using two fingers — for that was all that would fit on his tiny chest — Sandra managed to massage his heart back into action.
Good news! They all survived and thrived. Zoli and Bailey were adopted by Sandra’s mother-in-law, and they are living a life of leisure. Chloe went to live with a friend of Chris’s, and wee Leo was adopted by a client at the veterinary clinic.
Fourteen years have passed since those four unexpected visitors arrived. Looking back, I am thankful beyond measure that I had the opportunity to play a part in ensuring their survival. It was an up close look at the miracle of new life.
~Marilyn Helmer
My Annie-versary Kitty
A cat lover and his cat have a master/slave relationship. The cat is the master.
~Arthur R. Kassin
“I’m going to be late for work today,” my friend Michelle called to tell me. “My cat decided to have her babies this morning. In a basket of clean laundry.”
I laughed. “I’m guessing the laundry is no longer clean.”
“You guessed right. You’re going to take a kitten, aren’t you? I can’t keep them all, but I hate to take them to a shelter.”
“Yes, we’ll take one. I don’t want them at a shelter either.”
My husband and I already had one cat, a male named Tigger. He loved to cuddle, and he’d never met a stranger. Any time I sat down, he crawled into my lap for a snuggle. I just assumed all cats were that way.
Boy, was I wrong.
Several weeks later, Michelle told me that I could pick out my kitten. “I already know which one you’re going to want,” she said. “The runt is a female, and she’s so tiny and cute. You can have whichever one you want, but I predict you’ll fall in love with her.”
I smiled. The thought of a tiny, cuddly kitten had that effect on me. “We’ll come over tomorrow. Today is our first wedding anniversary, so I’m sure we’ll be too busy celebrating.”
But that night, after we’d had dinner at our favorite restaurant, my husband offered to take me to Michelle’s house. “I can tell you don’t want to wait,” he said with a smile.
He knew me well, as did Michelle. Her prediction was right. That tiny female kitten tugged on my heartstrings, and I knew immediately that she was the one I wanted.
We named her Annie, in honor of our anniversary. Our Annie-versary.
When we got home, I watched as Tigger inspected this new creature in his space. I was concerned that he might not like her, but I worried for nothing. Within moments, the two were snuggled together under our bed.
The next evening, Annie was still there.
“I can’t coax her out,” I told my husband.
“Just give her some space,” he said. “She’s still adjusting to a new place and new people.”
I took his advice and tried not to worry about her. But it soon became obvious that Annie wanted nothing to do with us.
“What’s wrong with her, Tigger?” I murmured into his fur during a snuggle session. “Can’t you tell her we’re nice people, and she doesn’t need to be afraid of us?”
If Tigger told her, Annie didn’t listen. She found every hiding place in our small apartment and used each one to her advantage. I would occasionally see a tiny black streak run b
y, but most days, I didn’t see her at all.
“How’s Annie?” Michelle asked after a few weeks.
“She hates us, and I don’t know why,” I answered. “She hides, and when I try to coax her out with food, she does whatever she can to get away from me. She avoids all contact with us.”
Michelle sighed. “Maybe she just needs more time to adjust.”
But weeks later, the problem had gotten worse, not better.
“She acts like she’s been abused or something,” I told Michelle. “She hisses at me any time I try to touch her.”
“I had a cat like this once,” she said. “They can be socialized, but it takes a lot of time and effort. It’s a big commitment. And if it doesn’t work…”
I shook my head and pictured that sweet, little face. “Tell me what to do.”
“You’ve got to make it impossible for her to hide from you,” she said. “Choose a room in your house and block off all of the hiding places in that room. Put Annie in there and visit her every day. Don’t try to touch her. Just let her get used to being in the same room with you.”
Our one-bedroom apartment had a small den that would be perfect as Annie’s new room. I blocked off the hiding places and moved Annie’s food and litter box into the room. It took nearly two hours, but eventually we were able to chase her into her new room.
The visitations started the next day.
When I walked in that first time, I could see Annie frantically looking around for somewhere to hide from me. When she realized there was nowhere to go, she backed herself into a corner and just stared at me.
I spent hours sitting in that room, staring at a cat who wanted nothing to do with me. Oftentimes, I would bring Tigger in with me, hoping that his friendliness toward me would influence Annie’s behavior.
No such luck.
Michelle said Step Two was to bribe her with food. “Put a tablespoon of tuna on a plate and set it a few feet away from you,” she instructed. “Still don’t try to touch her, but talk to her in a soothing voice while she eats it. If she doesn’t eat it with you in the room, take the treat with you when you leave. She’ll wait you out if you let her, so you need to teach her that she only gets the food if she comes close to you.”
It took two weeks before Annie ventured out of her corner to eat the tuna. And even then, she’d eat one bite, run back into the corner, and then venture out again for another taste.
It was so frustrating. “Why the mistrust, Annie?” I’d ask her softly. “I’ll never hurt you.”
Finally, after four months of daily visits, Annie let me touch her. It was the first time since the day we’d gotten her.
Gradually, she came close to me without the plate of tuna between us. She would allow me to pet her, and then one day, she crept into my lap.
It was amazing.
On our second wedding anniversary, I decided to let Annie out of the den, hoping she wouldn’t find a hiding place and stay there for the next six months.
Instead, she crept out of the room and slowly explored the apartment. Then she jumped onto the couch and lay down next to Tigger. When I sat down, both cats crawled into my lap.
I nearly cried with relief.
Annie taught me that relationships aren’t always easy, but they are always worth the effort. She taught me the fine art of simply sitting with someone, of being available to them when they finally come out of their hiding place and decide to open up and let us in. She taught me to go slowly and be patient, and to occasionally smooth things over with a tasty treat. And, most importantly, she taught me to never, ever give up on someone.
~Diane Stark
Sinbad’s Sofa
When you’re used to hearing purring and suddenly it’s gone, it’s hard to silence the blaring sound of sadness.
~Missy Altijd
If you’ve wintered in the heartland, you know the kind of blizzard I mean — a gale-whipped snow that burns your skin like needles. I pumped gas for three cars that night, each appearing suddenly from the whiteness like an apparition. The drivers huddled behind the wheel while I filled their tanks, paid wordlessly, and drove off, to be swallowed by the blinding storm.
Just after midnight, a longhaired, black cat appeared, his eyes glittering in the station lights as he paced outside the glass entry door. I could see he was yowling, but his voice disappeared in that pitiless wind.
I let him in. He ate a bit of my hours-old burger, washing it down with water from a paper cup. All the while, his watchful eyes never left me. His immediate needs met, he went exploring.
It didn’t take him long to find the sofa situated between the rusting soda cooler and the compressor powering the service-bay lift. The sofa wasn’t much to look at, but it was positioned under our admittedly inadequate overhead heater.
The cat didn’t mind the disgusting state of the sofa. It smelled of gasoline, engine oil and over-brewed coffee, and it was covered in a disturbing collage of stains — the origins of which it was best not to contemplate. I thought the rag bin would be a better place for him. It certainly smelled better. But would he let me pick him up?
He did. When I set him down in the rag bin, he eyed me with offended dignity before going to work pawing at the rags. He curled up in the resulting indentation, and I congratulated myself on my successful bait-and-switch. Less than an hour later, I settled down for a nap of my own on that sofa.
I slept lightly back then. So when Sinbad’s weight hit my chest, it startled me to full consciousness. He shifted around for a moment or two, eventually finding comfort with his nose less than four inches from mine.
I remember wondering if he’d had his shots as he pawed my nose gently, and then nose-butted me. After less than a minute of stroking him behind the ears, his purrs competed with the drone of the soda cooler behind my head. My new companion moved only once that night, momentarily startled by the compressor kicking in to re-pressurize the service lift.
The next morning, the station owner, Jerry, ratified the cat’s status as station mascot, dubbing him Sinbad. Jerry’s unstated plan seemed to involve underfeeding the cat so that he would keep the rodents in check. I doubt he realized I was feeding Sinbad each night when I arrived for my shift. In less than a month, Sinbad developed a fondness for venison jerky and vanilla milkshakes from the truck stop. He spent part of every night parked in the middle of my chest, purring and kneading me with his paws — occasionally with enough energy to keep me awake. And so it went through the long Plains winter.
By the time the Chinooks blew and the snow melted, Sinbad and I took each other for granted. Warmer weather had him coming and going at will, but never missing his evening snack. When I studied, he treated my open textbooks as his own. His favorites seemed to be Hansen’s History of Art and Box and Jenkins’ Statistics and Forecasting. Sinbad was not a cat to be ignored. Somewhere along the way, he had perfected the nose-butt, for use when more subtle, attention-getting techniques failed. By May, he ruled the back room and the sofa with the regal hegemony only cats can pull off.
One night when I came in for my shift, Sinbad was nowhere to be found. I asked Jerry about him, but he was as mystified as I was. A week passed, and still no Sinbad. He’s a cat, I reminded myself each time I worried about him. Cats do this. He was never yours, so get over it.
Sinbad had wandered in one night, seeking refuge. I had provided it, along with a comfortable sofa. Neither Sinbad nor the sofa we shared was mine. He had moved on when it suited him, just as I would move on when I completed the requirements for my degree. And when I moved on, my sofa would be someone else’s. That’s how it is, I told myself.
Still, I worried. Had he been snatched by coyotes, mauled by a dog, or hit by a car? Or had he just gone home, now that the snow had melted? The distractions of my senior year gave me other things to think about, gradually driving Sinbad from my thoughts — until Jerry replaced the sofa in the back room.
He was as aware as I was that the old sofa was years past its best. So whe
n he bought a new sofa for his den at home, he brought the old one out to the station. With Midwest pragmatism, he loaded the stain-soaked sofa from the back room into the pickup and hauled it to the dump. In his mind, he was merely replacing an old thing with a newer, more comfortable thing.
But I associated the old sofa with Sinbad, who had not simply curled up with me on it, but had also curled up in my heart. I missed my chance companion and, by association, the sofa we’d shared. Somehow, the new one was never comfortable.
It’s been more than forty years since Sinbad wandered into and out of my life with the effortless grace of cats everywhere. I have been through at least half a dozen sofas of my own since then, all nicer and less aromatic than the one in the back room of Jerry’s Standard station. I have also come to know countless men and women over those years. Most, like Sinbad, have wandered into and out of my life.
Many etched memories into my story, then moved on, often with little or no explanation. I have come to accept these unexplained disappearances. But some people — and some critters — never truly leave. They hang around, like Sinbad, long after they’re gone. Remembering always leaves me with a bittersweet twist in my gut — part regret, part reluctant acceptance, but mostly deep, enduring love. Sinbad, and the people and many creatures I’ve known, have become a kind of internal clock by which I measure my life and how much of it I have left.
Occasionally, on late nights when sleep eludes me, Sinbad still rubs against my thoughts. When he does, I tell myself his disappearance was just a result of him listening to the mysterious inner wisdom that guided him to me on that bitter winter night — just as it drove him to move on when it was time. But mostly when I think of him, I hope that at some level he remembered the sofa we shared — and that it was a place of deep contentment for him, as it was for me that winter so long ago.
~Dirk B. Sayers
Max
Cats ask plainly for what they want.
~Walter Savage Landor
No one knew where he came from. He just appeared in the hallway of a local rescue’s adoption center. Max was a striking gray tabby with a white vest and white paws, not feral but not exactly friendly either. He would most likely adopt out as a barn cat.