It all happened so fast. One minute, we were talking about vacations and new landscaping ideas. The next minute, we were in turmoil. Life reminds me of the weather. Oh, how we plan for sunshine and light breezes only to find ourselves in stormy, dangerous times. I wonder, had I been listening intently enough that day, would I have heard the sirens of misfortune in the distance? While most of this story is my fault, there are others who play a starring role. It’s kitten season again, you see. This one has been the absolute pits. I don’t understand the teen vernacular of these times, but I daresay we’ve got ourselves a skibidi Ohio toilet, or something like that.
Let’s set the scene. A week earlier, the inevitable had happened. The kittens appeared. Momma Cat, the neighborhood feral responsible for a massive chunk of our downtown Forney cat problem, finally popped out a new litter, her fourth in 2.5 years. Perhaps she’s had other litters who found refuge under other porches. These are the ones I have known. There were the original 4 in that first litter. They’re all gone now. The average lifespan of an outdoor cat is not long, at all. Things like coyotes, bobcats, pans of discarded anti-freeze, warm motors on cold mornings, and mean dogs don’t allow for a safe existence. Then came the all-girl litter. That one included Polly the calico, currently napping in the dog bed our standard poodle got for his birthday. Litter three was bigger. They were born in the hot summer last year, struggling to breathe in the relentless humidity. Those wound up in my guest bath. One of them stayed, too. Then, around a month ago, the newest litter surfaced. “We aren’t rescuing these,” I said. “No,” said my husband, “we are not.” “No,” said my daughter-in-law, “we are not.” Yet, a week later, 3 kittens from a massive 7 kitten litter were, indeed, meowing, hissing, and sneezing in my guest bath. Each had a virus. It was so bad, I thought two might lose an eye. I was inconsolable. It’s hard to watch animals suffer. That’s when I read the message.
“Hey, can you get the cat and the kittens to the animal shelter quickly? We can at least help you spay and return them or adopt them out as barn cats. We have a list of folks waiting for a barn cat.” I ran screaming through the house to tell anyone who’d listen. I was being offered a way out. The city had never shown any interest in helping me with all the feral cats. I felt like a kid on Christmas morning. I would need a live animal trap. Thanks, Amazon. I would need some scratch proof wildlife gloves. Thanks again, Amazon. I would probably need some wet food for the trap. Order, order, order was the soundtrack for the afternoon. Two days later, I baited my first live animal trap and watched as Momma Cat practically did the Watutsi and entered my capture. I made arrangements to drop her off at the animal shelter the next morning, along with the 3 bathroom babies. That’s when the bottom fell out.
The storm that descended on us that night was responsible for all the sidewalk brush I still see on everyone’s curb. The next morning, we took momma from our flooded storage building to our guest room inside. She’d torn most of the skin off her nose trying to escape. The animal shelter had no power. I was communicating with my contact. At this point, we were nearing 24 hours post trap. When the call came in, however, it was not what I expected. It seems the person who was helping me wasn’t authorized to do so. The offer of a spay and return was off the table. There would be no barn homes, either. I was advised to take care of her spay myself. “Good luck,” was the ending line of the conversation. Unfortunately, as the 24th hour loomed, I was unable to find a facility that tolerated feral cats that wasn’t affected by the storm. They were all closed. And, just like that, I let her go. My dreams of no more feral kittens went with her.
Momma’s nose healed nicely. She looks a bit worse for wear. It’s like she has resigned herself to a rough existence. Me too, Momma. Of the 4 kittens we couldn’t capture, only two are left. One of them is a girl. The tortoiseshell kittens are almost always female. They’ve begun eating on my porch in the early dawn, devouring dry kibble until they see me peaking around the door. They scamper like a dream you want to remember but can’t. There’s only one bathroom kitten left. Obi the One-eyed Kenobi has two good eyes now, thanks to specially mixed compound antiviral meds I had to order from Houston. There weren’t any pharmacies in Dallas that would mix drugs for kittens that weighed less than a pound. Obi’s brothers, Yoda and Anakin, went to live with some friends of ours in the country. They have a huge shop to call home and both chickens and pigs as friends. As for me, I’ve resigned myself to a few facts. I’m in this fight alone. I care too much, and I should probably stop blaming everyone else for that fact. Also, I’ve gotta rest up. By the next kitten season, I could be dealing with litters from Momma and her new Torti daughter. But this time, we won’t be rescuing any kittens. Where have I heard that before?
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