By Darlys Murray
It was my birthday and my friend, Louise, had dropped by to wish me well. As I was walking her to the gate I heard a plaintive cry from the back yard... perhaps a bird. As we passed my daughter, Colleen, and son-in-law, Mike, working in the flower beds, I said, "It sounds like something is in distress at the back of the lot. Would you mind checking?" After goodbyes were said to Louise, I walked back to see Colleen and Ed dismantling a lumber pile. Then Colleen reached in and brought out a hissing, spitting ball of grey fur... a kitten, as yet unweaned. There was no sign of a mother or siblings. This one had really used her voice to summon aid.
We took the baby to the vet to be checked, not wanting to introduce problems with our three adult cats. She was pronounced healthy and managed a saucer feeding without too many sneezes. She was so tiny and so active that my husband, George, said, "This one is a real fibbertigibbit," and "Flibby" she became.
George took me out for birthday lunch, and when we returned, Mike greeted us with news of finding "the other three" huddled near his shop, on the front of our property. No mother appeared, so we made a nursery out of the storeroom and started taming, box training, etc. with a view to grooming them for adoption.
We took them to a pet adoption weekend and found two homes. We turned down four as unsuitable for such small kittens. By the time we kept the remaining two another week, we were hooked... literally, with sharp little claws. Flibby and Ferd were family.
The time came when we realized the adolescent Ferd would be having impure thoughts concerning his sister. We were reasonably certain that lectures on morality would fall on deaf ears... four of them. So the deed was done: both are now neutered. We had to separate them for a few days and they were bewildered and inconsolable. We resorted to letting them play "footsies" under a closed door (from opposite sides), so each knew the other was still with us. Flibby, whose operation was far more serious, gave us no trouble, representing the long-suffering female. Ferd, reminding me of the human male with a head cold, was ready to dial 911 and be rushed to emergency.
One family addition this year has been Mokey, an adolescent kitten who joined Colleen and Ed's family recently. He was a stray... is there any other kind? He is quite unusual in his coloring: a black cat with grey stripes. I've heard that's called a Smokey Tabby. Even the staff at our local veterinary hospital hadn't seen this coloring.
He is supercharged. The staircase at their home starts near the front door and is open into the living room. There are two landings as the stairs turn twice. Mokey races down the stairs as far as the first landing, then launches from that (five or six feet high) into the living room. There had been a spider plant hanging between the front door and the staircase (approximately ten feet high). They came home one evening to find it on the floor and more or less past revival. They were pretty sure what had happened, but not "how." Later, they saw Mokey walking down the stair rail and realized he had probably launched from the stair rail to the plant.
He has had a recent visit to the vet's. He was told he was having his tonsils removed, but you can guess what really happened. Hopefully his testosterone level will decrease while there is still a habitable house standing.
I was taking a nap in front of the fireplace, zipped into my Snug Sack, while George was out in the cold weather walking our dog, Rufus. That division of duties was O.K. with me. But George woke me up and said there was something up at the pump house we should check. He also suggested I bring a box of cat food (a clue!) and said the problem was "right up my alley."
At the pump house I poured out a little cat food and called a gentle "Kitty, kitty." A diminutive grey and white head cautiously appeared from under the shed floor. The kitten, about eight weeks old, was dirty, scared, and starved. But, what a purr!
We fixed a box for him outdoors (firm stand) and called Colleen to scout for prospective homes. The next morning we discovered he had a bad limp and was shiveringly cold, so we brought the "poor thing" in, where he has taken over ever since. Colleen did find a home, but we'd discovered he had a dislocated hip and the other back leg was healing from a break, so he was scarcely adoptable. The leg injuries were possibly from being thrown from a car. In addition, he was wearing a flea collar that, as he grew, would have soon choked him.
George, tired of names like Elvyra, Delilah, and Gwendolynne, named him Buster (because he's busted?). After three weeks, he scarcely limps, has almost doubled in size, and can jump as high as a chair seat, which enables him to get almost anywhere in the house. Ivan, our senior male feline, has taken over Buster's training and they wrassle and chase most of the day, which is good exercise for Buster's weak legs, as well as a postponement of Ivan's senility.
About the Author
Darlys is a 92-year-old animal lover with an overgrown funny bone and a love of writing. She currently lives alone, peoplewise, but has the company of her indoor cat Freowlein. She has lived with a wide variety of pets over the years, but cats have always been her favorite. With their independence and unpredictability, she feels they are kindred spirits.