Attack of the Kitties!

Yesterday a delegation of workcampers talking in baby voices knocked on my door at 7am. I couldn't figure out why they were leading a troupe of small children over to my trailer on a Saturday morning (a belated Easter egg hunt?), but I rolled out of my bed/shelf (watch your head!), threw on some clothes and peeked out from behind my door into the blinding sunlight. They offered profuse apologies for waking me up early on my day off (let's face it, I don't have days off; pretending otherwise is just setting myself up for disappointment), then handed me a basket of cats. 4 mewling kittens, to be exact, black as coal dust, and outrageously eager to escape their yellow plastic laundry container-turned-conveyance.

The workcampers were late to catch their flight in New Orleans--what a parting gift!--, so into the trailer came the kittens, out came all my books from the cardboard box they'd been inhabiting for the last 2 months, into the box went the kittens, off of the rack came my towel, onto the towel went the kitties, and, kittens contained, over to the workcamper trailers I went to find their mama, whom the workcampers informed me was not doing well.

Indeed, she was sprawled, unable to move, next to a tupperware container full of milk; her mouth was dribbling reddish fluid into the milk, creating little pink coagulations that drifted aimlessly across the milk's white surface. Using rubber gloves from the volunteer trailer kitchen, I put her in the yellow laundry basket with a handtowel for comfort and trucked her over to my RV so I could keep an eye on her.

Next I thought it would be smart to pile all the cats involved into my car and drive three blocks to the animal shelter billboard advertising free spaying and neutering that I pass on my daily run (it pays to be observant--this is also how I know where the thrift store is, how much gas prices change overnight [a lot], and where to find SkiDoos for rent--in the abandoned parking lot next to the cemetery). I called the posted number, called another number, and got a nice lady on the phone who told me how to concoct a little number I like to call Kitten Ambrosia: 4 oz. evaporated milk + 4 oz. Karo syrup + 4 oz. water + an egg yolk (sorry vegans) = kitty bliss. I made a quick run to the grocery store (thank God the Food Tiger is open at 7:30am) for the ingredients, a baby bottle--which the store clerk, bless her heart, thought was for a "bouncing baby girl", which I most emphatically informed here it was NOT; but in a spirit of goodwill she wished me an early Happy Mothers Day anyway--some flea ointment, a litter box, litter, and scooper; and then I went home and got down to business.

Sad to say, Mama Cat expired while I was doctoring her babies. I'm not overly sentimental about animals, but I like to think that once she saw someone caring for her kittens--once they stopped screeching with every millimeter of their tiny feline larynxes at the indignity of not being fed every hour, on the hour, and started eating--she felt like she could depart this world for the great pet cemetery in the sky. Ignominiously, I had to put her in a plastic bag and dispose of her in the trash bin, because animal control doesn't work on the weekends (since rabid raccoons decide to invade your garage only on weekdays?? Right). I said a little blessing over her strangely limp, heavy body, and then went back to ministering to her offspring. Which, it turns out, is a full-time job.

Let's just say that--after flea meds; flea spray; slow-motion warm-water tail-to-nose dips designed to make fleas head upwards yelling "Abandon ship!" so that when they reach the nose-up end you can pick them off with a pair of tweezers, which is insanely frustrating and doesn't work; whipping up Chef Leah's new feline specialty a couple dozen (okay, two, but it feels like twenty) times a day; bottle feeding four messy drinkers who can only lap insanely small amounts of liquid, IN SLOW MOTION; spilling most of the Kitty Ambrosia on my favorite gym shorts; doing three loads of hot-water, bleach-added laundry to get kitty diarrhea off of my shirts, towels, you name it; waking up for early morning feedings; being treated to Kitty Concertos of Lament every time I want to take a shower, eat, or do anything not involving my new best friends; and acquiring a disturbing paranoia which produces phantom sensations of fleas crawling all over my body even when there is manifestly nothing there--I understand why people drown motherless kittens. I would never be able to bring myself to do it, but I see the point. Kittens were made to be raised by cats, not by people (least of all by people allergic to cats. Achoo).

But as my sister says, there is no better feeling than having 4 little feline motors curled up on your lap, purring in sync. And it's pretty cute when, crying like banshees, they frantically claw the front of your shirt and make skyward supplications with their little paws in an effort to nuzzle under your chin. Turns out that sometimes, that neurotic meowing isn't just about getting you to prepare another bottle of Liquid Kitty Crack, stat--sometimes, they just want a little lovin'. Awwww.

PS. Kitten cuteness notwithstanding, tomorrow morning they go to the nearest no-kill shelter. I'd love to adopt them, but a 7am-7pm job and the brand new carpet in the modular house I'm moving into say, emphatically, "NO."