Page 56 of Hold the Pickle
I feel a tiny head. Then another. Then another.
It’s a litter.
“Poor baby! You’re just a baby yourself!”
I snag one of the kittens and carefully lift it to the mother cat’s back to assess its age. The mother drops her head to her paws, as if she doesn’t have the energy to fight me over taking one.
The kitten’s eyes are open, but it’s undersized. Four weeks, I’d guess, even though it’s so light that it feels like a bundle of feathers.
I set it back down. These kittens won’t survive much longer. The mother is not well.
I press my hand to her belly. Her respiration is labored and fast. I feel around her neck. No collar or any impression that there ever was one. She is a stray that got pregnant the moment she matured. Kittens can go into their first heat at four or five months old.
Good gracious.
How do I get them out?
I crawl backward out of the bushes. I’m not far from home, but I can’t carry a litter of kittens in my arms. I need something.
The park is empty this early. A lone jogger passes through the center.
What do I do?
Tears smart in my eyes. I could run home and get Cattarina’s crate. I keep it in the back of my Jeep. Then I could take them to a vet.
Except it’s Saturday. Only the emergency care would be open.
I can call them. Or a rescue. That would be better.
But I have to get them out of the bushes. Something tells me this is urgent for the mother.
I head back through the park to go home, but then I spot a trash can spilling over. Beside it is a box!
My feet push into a jog. The box is mostly empty, a bit of extra trash in it. I smoosh the trash down into the bin and take the box. I’ll carry them home in this. Then I can stabilize them while I call around.
Now to get them out.
I walk to the bushes again and find another way with more space between the ground and lower branches. I set the box beside me and army-crawl in the dirt.
I’m approaching the kitten side this time, and I count four. Mama’s head is down. She doesn’t even bother to hiss.
I can only use one hand to get a kitten, as I need the other to push my way out again, but I get the first one into the box.
Then I’m back in. I hold two of them together. They are so small and weak.
I pause for a second as I place them in the box. Prepare yourself, Nadia. It’s possible they won’t make it. Be ready.
My lips press together as I go back in for the fourth kitten. The mother cat seems to realize that I’ve taken them and lifts her head to hiss at me again.
“I’ve got you, Mama,” I tell her. “Don’t worry.”
I move the last kitten to the box. Now for the hard part. She might get a spike of energy when I try to move her. Or if she’s hurt, that could make her fight.
I go back in. “Please don’t bite me,” I tell her. “I’m trying to help.”
When I’m close to her again, I stroke her fur. “We’re going to do this together, okay, Mama? We’ll get you back with your kittens.”
The back of my hand slides through mud and gunk as it moves beneath her. This is gross.
