I told myself all of this as I retired once more to my bed after a final check that the kitten looked to be sleeping peacefully, apart from occasional brief body spasms. I found it difficult to sleep that night and kept waking to tiptoe downstairs to keep the fire going and alleviate my anxiety about the kitten. It was similar, I assumed, to looking after a baby or a sick child and I became aware that I was adopting essentially the role of substitute parent.
As I nursed the kitten through these anxious early days of our life together, I reflected on how Owl Cottage fulfilled a long-held ambition of mine to live in the country after enduring several years in London at the start of my career. It had always been my intention to have a pet, most probably a kitten, as soon as I had a house with a garden. My dream of a house and garden had now become a reality but a pet had not been quite so high on my agenda at that particular moment in time.
Since buying and making my home in Owl Cottage over a year ago I had very much enjoyed living alone but it looked as if fate had taken a hand in my affairs. Out of the blue, I now had another life to consider, albeit one that sadly might cease at any moment. This tiny wild creature in just a few hours had made me realize how empty my home life had been without another living thing to care for. I found that I was rapidly changing my mind about being a completely free agent. Indeed, I was growing to like the thought of having another living creature to share my home with. I began to rejoice in the idea, however challenging, of raising this kitten as a pet.
Sunday morning came with a deep winter look about it. All the window panes were frosted over with what as children we called Jack Frost stars. Downstairs the cottage remained warm and I could see in the dim light that there were traces of glowing embers left amongst the ashes. Soon I had the fire roaring up the chimney, bringing the cottage awake again. Now I had to address the question of caring for this very sick kitten still lying precisely where I’d placed him the night before in the cardboard box. As I lifted him out and cradled him in my hand, he felt just like a tiny bag of bones and I despaired at my lack of common sense in hoping that I could nurse him back to health. Feeding him from the pen tube proved a messy business and I doubted whether he got much into his stomach. It was like holding a lifeless sack and several times I thought he had died, only to be reassured by a cough and what passed for a whimper.
There was no apparent progress that day and the kitten just lay in the box, dormant, in a curved foetal position. I really believed that he was dying but I stubbornly persisted in taking him out every few hours to force some of the milky mixture into him. At times I felt like giving up in frustration and I sensed hopelessness in what I was attempting to do. Sometimes I thought about taking him back to the vet so that he could die in peace. But I didn’t and I kept thinking, ‘I’ll give it one more try,’ followed by another and yet another until the whole day passed in a succession of depressing attempts to achieve the impossible, I concluded that nothing short of a miracle was needed, but then miracles sometimes happen.
I felt very much the same on the Monday morning when I had to shake off all of these feelings in order to go back to work. After feeding and washing him I left the kitten, a black lump of fur in the box near the fire, with the feeling that it had all been a waste of time. In fact, it was with immense relief that I sped off to college. I was finding caring extremely hard going. Once there, I didn’t tell any of my colleagues about my traumatic weekend because I couldn’t face the strong possibility that all my best efforts to save the kitten were doomed to failure. Now that I was away from the cottage and my patient, I was back in the real world in which the childish fantasy of rearing a sickly, half-dead kitten was farcical even to my mind. With a sinking heart I drove slowly home at the end of the day, afraid at what I might find, with a part of me hoping he had died and so released me from emotional torment.
There had been another heavy snowfall during the afternoon and I had great difficulty negotiating the driveway to the garage. The cottage assumed a dark and gloomy aspect in keeping with my mood. I even wondered whether I should walk down the bank to the Northumberland Arms for a bite to eat and some alcohol to drown my sorrows at what might be waiting for me inside the cottage. I stood for several moments outside, considering this option and staring up at the myriad of stars in the vastness of space above me. Normally, this night-time view of the universe served to raise my spirits but tonight it did nothing for me. Perhaps, I decided, it would be best to see what the situation was first and then go to the pub afterwards. Forcing myself to put the key in the lock, I went inside. I thought let’s do a quick check and then get out. I imagined that I’d find a stiff little body already in the throes of rigor mortis. Refusing to put on the lights, I shone a torch I’d taken from the boot of the car directly into the kitten’s box.
The sight that greeted me was truly amazing. Instead of finding him lying dead the kitten must have heard me come in and was shuffling around, making what I assumed to be squeaks of hunger. Overcome with happiness at this development, I yanked off my coat and set to work with renewed optimism. I was filled with joy at finding him alive in spite of my worst fears. I never did get to the local pub that night. This creature was hanging in there with all the tenacity Mother Nature had endowed him with and it was truly wondrous to witness.
Two days later a further crisis developed. When I returned from work I found the kitten convulsing with chesty coughs. His nose and mouth were covered in phlegm and there was more pus around his eyes, which had still failed to open. Sick at heart, I coldly reviewed the situation. His condition was ultra serious, it was probably some form of influenza, possibly pneumonia or pleurisy. It might even be cat flu which I’d heard was almost incurable. Whatever it was I considered it likely to be fatal. This small creature could not keep on going against such odds. What should I do? I suddenly felt totally weary of it all, too weary to bother to take him to Mac’s for the inevitable. I decided that I would continue to do everything I could for the little fellow and, if he did have to die, it would be on my lap.
Then a strange thing happened to me, something which I couldn’t ever remember happening before: I began to weep uncontrollably. Much later, my feelings eased somewhat. Resigning myself to whatever might lie ahead, I began to deal with the situation as positively as possible.
Of course, I did what I could to treat his condition but I did it without hope. I bathed his face, and cleaned his nostrils and his mouth. I squeezed fresh orange juice into a cup and soaking the end of a cotton handkerchief in it, I dripped some into his open mouth so that he would get the vitamin C. I’d read somewhere that this was what people did in the olden days to unblock the throats of children who were dying of diphtheria. And all the while my tears flowed as my feelings overwhelmed me.
I had already grown to love this creature and I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him now. I had put a huge emotional investment into trying to save the kitten and looking down at him I felt as if it had all been for nothing. He lay limply in my hand except when the coughing convulsed him. All night long I continued these ministrations. It was important to me that I gave him as much comfort as possible because it was through my arrogance in believing that I could save him that he was suffering now. I wouldn’t let him die alone. Sometime later during the night I forced a quarter of an aspirin into him. Then, exhausted, I fell asleep sitting in the chair, with the kitten on a towel in my lap.
I awakened feeling stiff and cold. It was just after six o’clock in the morning and still dark outside. The kitten still lay where I’d put him. He felt warm and had stopped coughing. I placed him in his box and then I loaded and stoked the fire into roasting flames. I needed to shave and shower as soon it would be time to leave for work. After a cup of tea I attended my patient. He was still alive but there was a sickly aura about him. I fed him and washed him as best I could. All the sorrow of the previous night had left me drained and I felt much relieved as if my tears had washed away the residue of tension which had accumulated sinc
e the rescue. It was again a relief to go to work for a brief respite but he was on my mind all day.
The next few days seem in retrospect to blend into one another as I continued to care for the kitten. I spent all my time at home looking after him. If I read or wrote anything it was always close to where I could see and hear him. Fortunately, there were no more crises.
When I checked him on Saturday morning there appeared to be a change. Somehow, he looked different. It was perhaps the way he was lying in his box. No longer was he lying on his side in a huddled curve, rather he was upright in a more typical cat-like position with feet and paws tucked under him like a nesting hen, although I must say, a very tiny hen. When I lifted him he mewed softly. Could he possibly be on the mend? Adrenaline rushed through me and filled me with the excitement of new hope. This put a fresh vista on everything. I felt happy for the first time in days and everything around me seemed brighter and better. I was more than ever determined to do whatever was necessary to save this kitten if I could.
From appearances the kitten seemed little changed but at least now when I fed him, amidst the splutters and snorts, there seemed to be a relishing of the milky concoction. I thought I could just detect a very tiny tongue-licking action with what I interpreted as enthusiasm, albeit faint, but nonetheless there. His eyes were still gummed shut and the grey bald patches on his skin showed no signs of improvement but intuitively I could sense that this little fellow was putting up a tremendous fight for his life.
Optimistically, I began to believe that together there might be a chance for us to beat the odds. The only time that I wasn’t occupied doing things either for the kitten or myself was when I was dozing into sleep and this was when I had the time to think. This kitten’s fight to live was testament to the enduring ability of living things to recover and adapt in the face of hardship if given help, support and, perhaps, some luck. Just before I fell asleep I had come to the conclusion that the kitten had been extremely lucky. And, furthermore, so had I. Tomorrow would tell, I believed, whether or not he really was on the mend. For the first time in several days I looked forward happily to the next morning.
Kittens grow up fast and two days in the life of a kitten is a long time compared to a human, so I was hoping to see a definite improvement in the condition of the kitten after a whole weekend of intensive care and nurture. As it turned out, I was not to be disappointed.
On Monday morning I arose bright and early to see how things were. The kitten lay coiled in a little fluffy ball, snuggled into the blanket in a corner of his box. No sign of life greeted me until I lifted him out and placed him gently on to a hand towel on my lap. He didn’t seem strong enough yet to stand and he appeared very fragile. Holding him in my hand I attempted to feed him from the pen sac, only this time it wouldn’t work. Inserting the business end of the sac into his tiny mouth, which as usual I had prised open, I squeezed carefully and nothing happened. I squeezed harder and the sac burst, spraying the evaporated milk mixture over the kitten, the kitchen table and my clothes. I suppose the fountain pen ink sac had never been intended for this purpose, although it had so far done sterling service.
I considered what I could do now as I cleaned up the mess. I resorted to ladling the milk directly into his mouth using a miniature silver-plated sugar spoon found abandoned in the cutlery drawer. I vaguely remembered it among the many keepsakes I had from my grandmother’s house. It seemed perfect for the job. The reaction to the first spoonful was discouraging. There was a great deal of spitting and snorting but some of the milk obviously went down. The second and third offerings caused him to gulp and gasp for breath but he didn’t choke, although at times it seemed as if he would. When I felt he’d had enough, I sponged his face and chest which were by this time extremely messy.
It was then that I noticed the bald patches on his skin had become red and looked really sore. I decided to apply some Evening Primrose ointment that my mother had given me to heal my hands after I’d been doing some building work. I had never used it and it took me a while to remember where I’d stored it. It was to prove very useful and I applied the sticky ointment with great care to the kitten’s bald patches. During these ministrations he simply lay quietly on the towel in my lap and seemed to be soothed into sleep by my fingers gently stroking the balm into his skin. He had a most affable temperament, even allowing for his weakened state. I was beginning to appreciate that there was something very special about this little cat, something simply lovable. Day by day he seemed to be developing and changing for the better.
As the week went on and his health continued to improve, I had another problem. Since the kitten appeared to be progressing so well I worried what would happen if he became really active and escaped his box. Cats, even kittens, are exceptionally good climbers so my worries about him in this respect were not unfounded. I also needed to make sure that the kitten wouldn’t die of hypothermia in an old draughty cottage when the fire went out. I expected that his immune system couldn’t cope with any more of a battering than he’d so far endured.
It was a freezing Thursday morning and I was preparing to go to work but the problem nagged at my mind. After giving the matter serious consideration, I took a clear, wide-bottomed glass jug, which usually contained dried flowers, from the bathroom and some cotton-wool balls which I used whenever I cut myself shaving. Putting the two together offered the ideal solution. Emptying the jug, washing and drying it, I covered the bottom with cotton wool and stood it on an old-fashioned, three-legged stool called a cracket which I’d inherited from my grandmother. Then I moved the cracket closer to the fire. Next, I very carefully lifted the kitten and placed him gently in the centre of the cotton-wool base. Whilst I was away he could be as active as he liked but the jug would ensure that he was kept warm. Now I felt I could happily leave him in safety and comfort. I wished I’d thought of it sooner.
Since the morning weather report on the radio predicted a further sharp fall in temperature for the rest of the day, I stoked the fire as fully as I could and drew the curtains to make the room as cosy as possible. With a last look at the tiny figure I hurriedly, but reluctantly, left for work. While the kitten still required ‘Intensive Care’, at last the situation was easing down from ‘Critical’ to the ‘Patient is Comfortable and Out of Danger’.
After a hectic and frustrating day at work, I drove into the driveway of the cottage and anxiously let myself in through the patio door. My small living room felt warm and cosy in contrast to how desperately cold it was outside. There was a faint red glow from the burned-down fire and in the subdued light from a table lamp I examined the contents of the jug. Gently, I felt inside and touched the dark ball of fluff almost cocooned within the cotton-wool lining and to my utter relief it stirred. He was alive and seemed well. This event, however small in its cosmic significance, caused me immense satisfaction and I hastened to bring the cottage alive once more with heat, light, food and music.
This pattern of events became the routine for the rest of that week. Although there were some anxious moments, I gradually came to realize that the kitten was likely to survive. I even felt sure that the kitten had grown bigger in his time with me. Whenever I fed him now, his body appeared to be firmer and he seemed less devoted to sleeping than previously. Several times I noticed him shuffling around in the jug as if he was trying to assert his right to an active life.
There were a number of high spots during the next week to balance out the worrisome times. There was the morning when, after feeding him and bathing his face, he at last opened his eyes and looked at me with what seemed like two tiny blue jewels. The memory of that moment, of the look of wonder and bemusement on his grizzled face at seeing me and the world around him for the very first time, caused me to break into a chuckle whenever I thought about it for the rest of the day.
Then there was the time four weeks after finding him that I came home from work to an amusing and, as it proved, eventful sight. As I came into the room the kitten’s diminut
ive figure was raised on hind legs, peering out from the inside of the jug as if to welcome me. For some days he had been responding to me more and more. He seemed to be increasingly aware of my presence whenever I came near him and his body would turn to face the direction of my voice whenever I spoke to him.
I needed to give him a name.
Watching him as carefully as I did I saw that he was developing into an extremely interesting personality. I was impressed by the way he shuffled around his jug as he negotiated the lumps of cotton wool with fierce determination. And then there was the way he would peer through the thick glass sides of the jug as he sought to make some sense of his world. Watching him, I was fascinated and I believed his progress to be nothing short of miraculous.
The sight of him in the jug that evening clinched an appropriate name for him. No other name would be so right. He looked the picture of a miniature Toby Jug as he stood peering out through the glass and from now on that would be his name: he would be known always as Toby Jug no matter what else happened. This decision also settled something else that had been hovering in my mind – the uncertainty of whether he would or would not survive. Now I was filled with a firm sense of conviction that the kitten I’d rescued on that foul night over four weeks ago was, against all the odds, going to live. It seemed a lifetime since I’d brought him home and I really hadn’t expected then that he would survive. But here he was, alive and kicking, and very much emerging as a personality with which to be reckoned.
Paw Prints in the Moonlight Page 3