Sam power-washed the back porch along with the Adirondack chairs. I beat the rugs and fluffed the cushions. Out from the greenhouse came bougainvillea, two palms, hostas, hanging pots of English ivy, Swedish ivy, airplane plants, some pink periwinkle, dianthus, blue daze and an assortment of other plants.
The pond waters swirled with active fish, and a lazy grass carp moseyed by. A half-a-dozen turtles sunned on the bank; then a quick “plunk,” and the turtles vanished into deep murky waters.
Most mornings two green herons and a pair of wood ducks appear. A great blue heron stalks beside the pond. Great blues can be 5-feet tall and a little scary to see face to face. They take flight as soon as they are aware of us watching.
And so it was on Friday evening we were watching the backyard goings-on when we heard something. Sam said, “That sounds like a small animal in distress.”
“I heard that sound the other day. I tried to find it but couldn’t,” I said. “I think it’s a bird that sounds like a cat.”
Unconvinced, Sam began to follow the faint call. He walked down from the porch and to an entrance door under the house. He knelt down, taking a step or two, when he called out, “It’s kittens!”
The tiniest of tiny kittens stumbled toward Sam. He picked the kitten up, held it close to his chest and handed it to me. “There’s two more,” he said.
The other two were not as easy to capture as Sam duck-walked under the house. In minutes, he had both kittens. Each one stretched out their front legs and cried like babies.
“Gone with the Wind” ran through my mind: “I don’t know nuthin’ about birthing babies.”
Because our 9-month-old kittens had been rescued, it felt strangely like “paying it forward.” Fortunately, my rescuer brought bottles and feeding dishes when she delivered Harry and Wilhelmina, and I still had them. I immediately texted Liz for instructions, which she supplied. Besides feeding, she directed, “Hold them as much as possible. If you get them used to people they’ll make someone good pets.”
Shortly, we had a box with blankets and a pen. We bottle-fed the little one while the two stronger ones wallowed in dishes of soft canned food. After feedings they were covered with food from head to toe and required baths. Almost immediately they used a tiny litter box.
Differing personality traits showed up quickly. The yellow Garfield kitten was bold and demanding; he’d take his paw and push the others from the food bowl. The grey tabby was easy-going, while the runt was the baby and required a lot of cuddling. All three clung to us like Velcro.
On two occasions I had seen what was certainly the mother. Once, Wilhelmina chased after her into the woods. The second time, she walked away from the house and when she glanced back, we made eye contact. It would be the last time.
Shannon Bardwell’s column appears in The Dispatch on Mondays. Email reaches her at [email protected].
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