A Bedside Table Full of Blessings
When the plea went out from our local shelter recently for help with the dozens of tiny, motherless kittens who needed fostering, I finally ponied up and jumped in full force.
When I went to pick up a few of the babies and saw how many there were (literally dozens), peeping their squeaky little appeals to all who passed, sitting dejectedly in the corner of their cage, or, in the case of the stronger ones, leaping up and hanging from the cage door so you couldn’t miss them, I decided to take as many as I thought I could handle. So nine it was, from three different litters.
These babies weighed between one and 1.5 lbs., mind you, and gaining enough weight to be spayed or neutered and then put up for adoption was the main goal. Socialization the next, almost equal, priority. I thought, “Okay. I can do that. A couple of weeks of a little mayhem but lots of play time with kittens — it’ll be fun!”
Think again, Leta. The day after taking my babies home, ringworm was discovered in the nursery so all in that section had to be isolated and treated. It was decided to keep mine where they were — at my house in my guest bedroom — but a week later one of my tiny tots did glow blue (not good) when the shelter vet scanned him for ringworm with the black light.
Alas.
So it was decided my crew too should receive treatment. This consists of dipping as well as oral medication. Since I had unexpected guests arriving for a long weekend, and the kittens had to go to the shelter for their treatments as well as routine vaccines and deworming, the shelter graciously offered to keep my babies for four nights so my guests could inhabit my guest quarters without having nine kittens scrambling all over them.
I went to retrieve the babies yesterday. Or part of them. I had decided only to bring back four or five of the smallest, as the nine-some had indeed proved to be fairly tricky to handle. The stronger amongst them would attach themselves to me like iron shavings to a magnet when I walked in the guest room door, or several would come pouring out into the hall and land amidst my six dogs who were standing there ever curious about the new occupants. (Fortunately my dogs are cat-friendly, so no mishaps there). But it was hard. Besides, all had gained weight and thrived under my watch so I thought the larger ones would probably do just fine if I left them there. So four or five it would be.
NOT.
When I got to the shelter I was first and foremost totally awed by all the the folks who work there do for these little guys, every day. They have to do ungodly things to them several times a day (pills, shots, dipping, cleaning up diarrhea, to name a few), keeping decontamination uppermost in mind at all times. I was so impressed!
But I was also horrified. Every single one of my babies had lost at least 2 or 3 of the hard-earned ounces I had put on them in the ten days they were with me. One was back down to 1 lb. and had horrible diarrhea. Her little face looked like a Biafran orphan, and I could tell she was walking that line between deciding to live or not. They were all depressed and somewhat lifeless. After all, in their circumstance they could not be taken out and handled so they could not receive the oh-so-important cuddling and loving and play time all babies need in order to thrive.
Needless to say I scooped up all nine of my babies again . . . plus one. She too was tiny, tiny, and was isolated in a cage all alone. I could not leave her behind.
I’ve had “my” 10 babies home for 24 hours now, and am as protective of and concerned with their welfare as a mama bear. They are getting top-grade kitten food from the health food store, are eating voraciously 4 or 5 times a day, and some soothing intestinal herbs and powerful micronutrients are already putting a little pizazz back into them. A few are still puny and obviously not feeling well, but several are zooming around the room again turning somersaults together, or sitting in the sun watching the birds outside their large window. And my little Biafran baby, Blue, is beginning to stretch when she wakes up (a good sign) and show a lot more interest in her food.
I don’t plan to adopt any of these wee ones, but yeah, they are starting to take on distinct personalities and names: Zapata, Sparks, Ochenta and so on, and it will be a red letter day when I can take them back to the shelter fat and happy and well socialized so that they can go to wonderful, caring homes. It’ll be a while — no two-week frolic, for sure — but it’ll be more than worth it.
"Sparks," so named by Ava, a friend's little girl in Boston.
Whether it’s baby kitties, an adult dog or cat, or a rescue horse, I urge you to help out when you can. It is so gratifying and good for your soul, not to mention life-saving for these precious beings.
Copper – My 32-year-old Quarter Horse was a throwaway. His owner said, “If you can get him in the trailer, you can have him!” Copper is still ridden lightly by a petite friend whom he adores. He is everyone’s favorite and loves to kiss … yes, kiss.
Gabriel – My 18-year-old Dutch Warmblood. Rescued after his second six-month stint at an equine clinic 10 years ago, Gabriel’s entire body is compromised from performance injuries and he has a bad heart murmur. He probably shouldn’t still be alive, but HE doesn’t know that and he is one happy camper.
Rose – A 12-year-old Border Collie mix, Rose was actually born at my house to a NM stray I had picked up on the road. She was then homed with a woman who turned out to be a maniac so I rescued her back when she was four months old. She is my coy, demure sweetheart, and can’t stand loud noises or voices (probably due to the maniac!).
Sabrina – I am Sabrina’s 4th home. A 10-year-old Rhodesian Ridgeback mix, she was found running wild on the streets of Austin because it is well nigh impossible to contain her. Having climbed, dug, and chewed her way out of just about every conceivable type of fence, she tells me it’s just because she loves to go exploring. Sabrina is our social director and adores visitors. At 10 she is no longer challenging the fence so much, so is safe and sound for her later years.
Charlie – My heart and soul, walks-on-water dog, Charlie is a Golden Retriever/Chow 6-year-old who was found running on a country road at midnight — an unneutered, uncollared 6-month old. He was dumped, clearly, as he is petrified I’m going to do the same with him every time I take him in the car. Otherwise, he goes with me everywhere on foot or horse, and watches me like a hawk. He is my guardian.
Lily – Lily was freezing to death, injured, and emaciated when I grabbed her up as a half-feral, adolescent kitten in Texas. She was the fastest to tame down I’ve ever seen, and is highly motivated by food. She is my only remaining cat and holds her own amidst the chaos of my dog pack — I think she may be part wild cat.
Tucker – My 3-year-old Chiweenie rescue whom I took from the Santa Fe Humane Society last year about this time. Tucker has filled our hearts and home with his gratitude, joy, and playfulness and it is because of his precious little spirit that I decided to take his new heartthrob, Frida.
A lot of people seem to think that if you can talk to an animal then you can make it do anything you want — kind of like a puppet on a string. They want us animal communicators to talk their dog out of eating the cat’s food, or their horse out of being jumpy on the trail, or their cat who loves to hunt out of killing birds — mice are okay, but no birds.
