A Gift of Kittens
There are some things in a person’s life that change them forever. They may not leave their mark in a big or especially noticeable way. And yet, like the spices added to a dish, it is these small things that truly enrich life. Little did I know that a day long ago in early November would be such a thing, the beginning of a journey that would last for years.
On that morning, the premature snow that had fallen in October was melting as the sun came out, beaming down strongly. I had the day off of work, so I decided to spend some of the warm morning for a relaxing ride. Saddling my chestnut Tennessee Walker gelding, Image, I turned him towards the deserted road that ran alongside the highway.
Suddenly, his ears pricked up. I ignored him, but then I heard something as well. Halting Image and dropping the reins to ground-tie him (well behaved as he was, he would stand motionless until I picked them up), I slipped and skidded down the inclined ditch to the culvert. As my eyes adjusted to the shadows, my ears found the source of the weak cries. Hidden in the darkness lay a dirty white sack. I picked it up, nearly dropping it again in surprise as I felt its contents.
Undoing the ratty piece of rope, I peered inside. I fully expected to find baby mice or hamsters, the unfortunate offspring of a child’s pet. Instead I found striped furry bodies with soft folded ears. They were kittens.
Immediately following a rush of anger at the person who would leave helpless babies to die like this of asphyxiation or starvation came the decision to bring them home, save as many as I could and give them a permanent home. I couldn’t believe that anyone still actually tried to abandon kittens, especially now when there were animal shelters everywhere that, even if they could not find a home, would at least provide a quick and painless death.
I reached in and withdrew the first kitten, a tabby. Its folded ears and tightly shut eyes showed that it was only a couple of weeks old, much too young to survive without its mother. Its fur was damp from the shallow water that had been lapping against it. Cautiously I withdrew another one, then another, until I had nine altogether. Gathering them carefully in my arms, I brought them over to the horse one by one. Suspiciously, he leaned over to sniff them, throwing his head back in surprise when one shifted and bumped into his nose. “Whoa, easy boy,” I soothed. After a last defiant snort he stood quietly as I gently transferred them to the saddlebags slung in front of the saddle and lightly got up behind.
Utilizing that special gait found only in Tennessee Walkers, the running walk, Image carried us home with “a ride smooth enough to balance a glass of water on your hand without spilling a drop.”
Home again, I turned him loose in the pasture, leaving his tack on the ground for a moment. Carrying my fragile package inside, I placed it on the table, then shooed one of my own cats out of her basket and carried it to them. Lined with a soft cotton blanket, it was perfect for them. One by one, I took the poor little kittens out of their prison and laid them in the basket, drying the wet ones with a towel. There were nine altogether – the males consisted of three tabbies (one gray, one orange, and one regular) and a black one with white feet, and the females were two more tabbies (one regular, one blue), a solid black, a black and white, and a calico.
Unfortunately, by the time I had brought them to safety, the calico and the male tabby lay stiff and lifeless. Whether they had died before I found them or on the way home I would never know, but they would have a proper burial beneath the rose bushes.
Gabu, my slobbery St. Bernard meandered over, and I quickly shoved him away. Gentle though he was, I didn’t want him around just yet.
While I waited for a bit of milk to warm, I played with the soft curls of their fur, caressing it gently. Once it was ready, I carefully filled an eyedropper with the mixture. I picked up the blue tabby and gently prodded the nipple into her mouth. After a bit of squirming, she accepted it and instinctively began to suck away. When she had had enough, and spat it out, I repeated the process with the others. All but one of the tabbies took it happily; he drank barely half before turning away listlessly.
Eventually, my own cats began to wander over, curious about the little animals. The elderly tabby, Ucyclu, gave them one look and then stalked off, but her aptly named daughter, Angel, was more forgiving. Whiskers trembling as she cautiously sniffed each one in turn; she then climbed right into the basket. Purring contentedly, she made it known right then and there that she was adopting these kittens. Seeking the sudden warmth and heat near them, the funny little creatures squirmed and wriggled their way to her side. Although her father Dizzy and pal Black Gold wanted a look as well, warning hisses and bared teeth made them think twice.
There was little else for me to do for the moment, so I pulled down a book on cats from the shelf to refresh my memory on how best to care for them. Their next feeding wouldn’t be for several hours, and so I settled down to name them, hoping they would all live. The white-footed one was, of course, Boots. The other black and white one, who sported a funny black smudge on her nose, was named Jenna after a piebald pony I’d ridden as a kid. Because of her blue-gray fur, I decided to call the blue tabby Peridot, after the gemstone (not until afterwards would I learn the gem is actually green). Orange and gray tabbies became Pumpkin and Dusty. This left the two brown tabbies. After their adoptive mother, I called them Hope and Faith.
When morning came, however, I was greeted with a sorry sight. Despite their names, Hope and Faith were dead. They joined their brother and sister underneath pink flowers, while Angel meowed softly and resumed licking the remaining five with a vigorous tongue.
As the kittens grew bigger and stronger, playing with everything they could find, their personalities came out as well. Boots was quiet and shy, and he followed Jenna everywhere. She in turn took care of him like a second mother, gently washing his fur with her little pink tongue. But, she was also the boldest. She scampered about, greeting the dog and all the cats and anyone that came to the door. Pumpkin and Dusty were the wrestlers, forever leaping on each other and fighting like miniature tigers, in a ferocious battle over nothing that would end in twenty seconds with purrs all around. Peridot took a shine to Ucyclu, imitating the independent wanderings of the old cat.
By Christmas time they were boldly exploring the entirety of the house – especially that fascinating Christmas tree. Dusty met his match when he tried to climb it. He made it nearly to the top when he tried to venture out onto a limb, slipped and fell. He was unhurt, but from that point on he was careful to give it a wide berth. On Christmas morning, Peridot developed a penchant for smoked oysters. Finding an open tin, she stuck her paw inside, flicked one out, and came back to the living room where she tucked it between her paws and began to sniff, lick and nibble it until every tiny morsel had disappeared.
As my cats grew from curious kittens into sleek, muscled adults, their unique characteristics began to appear one by one.
After accidentally locking her into a tack trunk that we brought along to the horse show, Jenna became our little show mascot. Proudly sitting with us on the drive over, she stayed with the horses and kept them calm and relaxed before their classes – and me too, I suppose. Showing amazing cleverness for a cat, she learned to recognize which pieces of tack went into the trunk, and if I ever forgot an item she was quick to fetch it if it was small enough (such as a comb), or to tap my arm and meow. Besides that, she was closer to horses than any animal I’d ever seen. At home, she would casually stroll into the pasture and walk around, or leap onto the wooden fence and manage to draw a crowd of mares, as if they were talking. Many nights would find her curled up asleep in the barn on the back of her favorite horse, an elegant black Friesian mare named Orlanda.
Pumpkin was known for terrifying houseguests. There was an elm tree near the door, and he was an adept climber. Devilishly, he would lie in wait on an outstretched branch, and then casually drop onto the shoulder of an unsuspecting human, hoping that they would scream. Despite severe admonishments, he kept the running joke going until he was too old to climb anymore. Once or twice, he also climbed onto the barn roof and jumped onto the backs of horses. This game stopped after one of them reared and threw him into the grass, severely bruising his dignity. When he wasn’t scaring other creatures, he was exploring the hayloft with Dusty, catching bugs between his paws.
Boots, too, had an interesting attention-getter. One day, I was preparing dinner when I suddenly heard a choked hiss coming from the den. I was horrified to find the little cat flopping around on the floor like a fish, eyes staring blankly at the wall, an odd sound coming from the back of his throat. I rushed to get him, thinking he was having a seizure. The instant I picked him up he calmed down, blinked, and began purring as he rubbed his cheek against my hand. He remained better mannered and orderly than any of my cats…provided he received a decent petting session every day.
One final tragedy struck during these golden years, and that was the death of Dusty. He decided to cross the busy street in front of our house and never returned. And yet, out of the pain and grief came solace. The loss of a sibling brought my remaining four closer than ever before. Prior to the event they had been drifting apart – Pumpkin and Dusty were always together without anyone else, and Peridot ignored them all for Ucyclu. From that fateful day onward, though, the four have been inseparable.
Years went by, and new dogs and horses arrived on the farm, but through it all my “Sibling Cats” were a constant, the quirks and endearing mannerisms of the cats carrying me through all the trials of life.
When a tornado ripped through our town, destroying the barn and killing one beloved mare, I cried for hours until Peridot climbed into my arms, purring loudly, pressing her soft fur against my cheek so I stopped long enough to smile through my tears and pet her.
It’s been years, now, since the days when they were little kittens. Today they are old and stiff; for nineteen years have passed since the day I rescued them from the ditch. Boots has a weak heart and Pumpkin is losing his sight, but still they remain loving and adoring pets. As I write their story now, snowflakes quietly float down outside the window and settle over the Ohio landscape. A fire crackles merrily in the hearth, providing light for my pen scratching over the white, unlined paper. Boots shifts in my lap and yawns from beneath the afghan draped over me. Pumpkin has taken up residence over my slippered feet, while Jenna and Peridot are snuggled side by side front of the fire, encompassed in the large paws of our gentle Collie, Shep. Jenna yawns in her sleep and stretches up one paw to pat his nose, and he carefully rests his head beside them, eyes closing in comfort.
As Christmas nears again, I am counting my blessings. The quartet of cats has taught me as much about my life as any person ever has, and I am thankful for their simple teachings. I know they will leave me someday, as all pets must. But no matter how long I go on without them, I will remember, and cherish, the impact that their gentle lives have left on my own.