Justine and the Catling Catastrophe

by Ruth Hay

  “I am not sure that I am doing the right thing for this tiny creature, Pauline. You have a defter touch than I do. It would help my confidence to have a professional opinion.”

  “Justine, I can assure you that you have saved this life and you have already made good decisions. I doubt much more can be done for now. It’s a simple case of ‘rinse and repeat’, if you like; much like rearing a newborn baby.

  I will call around town to see if I can track down a vet for you. Stay here and rest a bit. I won’t be long.”

  She removed the empty plate and I sat back with the catling and the cushion on my knee.

  My furious anger was abating. I could do little more about finding the owner of the black bag until the catling was mobile, and that, I was beginning to understand, would likely take weeks.

  I was dozing again when I felt a tug on my sleeve. Pauline’s son, named John, was by my side, watching the kitten sleep.

  I was unwilling to get into conversation with him about the circumstances that had brought me to his home. That difficult discussion was, I believed, best handled by his mother. I asked him, instead, to tell me about the flag he carried yesterday.

  “Don’t you know? It was Saint Piran’s day! Everyone was down on the sands. I was in the procession with my flag. Every year we all march to his big stone and remember him. It’s lots of fun.”

  I had never heard of this saint but I thought his name must be connected to, Perranporth, the name of the town. I made a mental note to find out more whenever I had the spare time to do so.

  Just then, the catling mewed and stretched out. Had she grown an inch overnight?

  John responded with delight and I gave him the baby bottle to try dripping a drop or two into the open mouth. Two drops landed on the fluff, but one reached its destination and John ran off to tell his sister of his success.

  Pauline returned with news. There was no permanent vet surgery in Perranporth but a travelling van service could be reached by phone when required. Pauline had the number for me.

  “Justine, I will help out when I can. My husband is in the Lifeboat Coastal Search and Rescue Service and is often away on practise runs or actual missions. When he comes home again, I will take the kitten and let you get a decent sleep. With two children, I know how lack of sleep can bring a person down fast. You cannot help this kitten if you are not fit.”

  I thanked Pauline profusely. She was wise beyond words and I paid attention to her personal advice. My next task must be to call the vet’s number and ask for professional advice on raising a helpless animal.

  Still running on the energy from Pauline’s good food, I decided I could not delay a moment longer.

  I returned to Sea View, called the number for the vet and heard a long list of numbers designed to zero in on the seriousness of the caller’s request. I left a message of some urgency and had enough time to boil water and heat milk for the vacuum flask before my phone rang.

  “This is the veterinary service; Doctor Hudson calling. Do you have an animal emergency? How can we help?”

  I swallowed. How much time did I have to convey my concerns to this busy professional?

  I skipped the detail of the entire experience of finding the drowned kits and went to the immediate problem.

  “As I explained, Doctor Hudson, I am feeding a tiny catling, on demand, with warmed cow’s milk and wondering if this is appropriate.”

  I heard what sounded like a chuckle and immediately bristled. This was no laughing matter to me. Before I could protest, however, he spoke again.

  “Sorry! I have not heard that word in many years. It is a term used only for very small, very weak kittens. How old do you think yours is?”

  Now I was out of my depth. I could not estimate an age.

  “This is one of many things I do not know, Doctor. I can say she has no real fur, her eyes are closed and she needs constant feeding other than when she sleeps.”

  “Is she producing urine?”

  “Yes, in small amounts. I found her birth mates drowned in a river. She is the sole survivor.

  I have had cats before this, but never one this young and fragile.”

  There was a pause on the line. I swallowed again. I really needed this help.

  “I see. You are doing what you can. I advise homogenized milk as long as she can digest it without sicking it all up again. Keep her in a warm atmosphere as much as possible. You are trying to duplicate a mother cat’s care for now. I will arrange a home visit as soon as I can. I will call you with the time of the visit and get your address.

  Do not think I am ignoring the dreadful circumstances to which you allude, Miss Dixon. Our priority for the moment must be the catling.”

  I thanked him and felt less alone. Pauline was nearby and a professional vet was about to enter the picture. I had a mental image of a young man with strong hands and a reassuring manner. He might laugh again at my toy baby bottle solution, but his voice was kind and I felt he could be an ally in this desperate fight.

  I carried the cushion, now beginning to show the signs of wear, in my arms to the kitchen, where I boiled water for hot chocolate and scoured the shelves and cupboards for food I could prepare quickly. Pauline’s words were ringing in my brain. If I failed to care for myself, the catling would surely die.

  The follow-up call from the vet service came after another day had passed. I was becoming more used to the routine, but sleep was a problem. Light dozing does not substitute for deep REM sleep, I discovered. My dreams were strange and like a flickering old cinema screen. I saw a man stagger onto Perran Beach from a round coracle. He was exhausted, wet, shivering, and had a large stone tied around his neck. He dragged himself up to the sandy shoreline and collapsed there onto his knees in prayer. As he prayed, the stone fell from its bindings and he began to gather other stones from the shoreline and pile them on top to form a rough cross-shape. Then he lay down and slept.

  This dream repeated several times during the night. I thought I might be hallucinating from lack of sleep but a part of my brain knew that repeated dreams bring messages of importance.

  When morning light came, I found myself thinking of John next door, and then I understood I had dreamed of Saint Piran, the man who had recently been commemorated by the townsfolk. I thought I would ask John about the significance of his unusual flag.

  Dr. Hudson arranged to visit me at Sea View after he completed another call in the town.

  I did my best to ensure everything was clean and ready for inspection although nothing that could be termed housework, had been accomplished by me since the arrival of Catling.

  I glanced in passing at a mirror and was not happy with what I saw. There were dark hollows under my eyes and I had developed a twitch around my nose that was definitely a new symptom of stress. My hair was a tangled mess for lack of time to comb it out thoroughly.

  It would have to do. This vet visit was more important than my appearance.

  I was correct in my estimation of Dr. Hudson. He was indeed young and strong, and efficient. His hair and beard were a dark red, but his eyebrows were more brownish in colour. He had clear green eyes which I saw only when he removed his dark glasses. I immediately had sympathy with his need to protect his eyes. We had that in common at least.

  He stepped inside and went at once in the direction I indicated. The cushion lay on the sunny windowsill, Catling was sleeping with a full tummy on display.

  “Well,” he began, “She is tiny. I can’t say as I have ever seen one survive away from the mother at such an early stage of development. She has some of the back teeth and her eyes will open soon. Her first sign of fur should come along shortly to replace this fluff.”

  He gave me a calculating look for the first time.

  “You say you have never done this kind of rescue work before? I commend you. I imagine you have mimicked the mother cat’s licking or this little one would not have been able to digest the milk and produce urine.”

  I nodded, in some
relief that my efforts were satisfactory.

  Next, he asked for my feeding implements and when he saw the toy plastic bottles his left eyebrow raised to his hairline in surprise.

  “It’s quite a useful idea, but I have a dropper here for you. It’s made of glass, with a proper rubber teat and can be washed out to prevent infection. Keep administering as many drops as she can take. This bottle contains a fortified milk product that should be warmed slightly and should help her system to develop. When she begins to suck on the teat you will know you are over the first big hurdle.”

  He reached for Catling and although my instincts were to prevent him, I bit my lip and watched.

  His hands enclosed her tiny body but his fingers examined her carefully from ears to tail.

  “Well, she’s a lucky one for certain! By all rights she should not be alive.”

  He replaced her on the cushion where a small dent now indicated the place where her weight had made a depression on the towel covering.

  “So, tell me where you found the kittens.”

  I launched into an account of the riverbank and all I had found there. I could hear my voice rise in indignation but the doctor did not seem to be overly alarmed at my story.

  “I am afraid to tell you that this is the second such incident I have encountered in the last week or two. The other was a set of puppies placed in a recycling bin near the town centre. None of them survived.

  I was appalled and said so. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “I suspect there’s a puppy and kitten mill somewhere in the area or even further away, but I could be wrong. Unless we find the source, these deaths will keep happening. It’s spring now, and young animals are born at this time of year. I have my colleagues watching out for a likely place where animals are being raised in secret. I now add you to my team, Miss Dixon. I don’t imagine it will be in a house as such. More like a farm outside the towns or a barn attached to a house somewhere out of the way.

  Whichever, it is a nasty business and must be stopped as soon as possible.”

  I was still trying to take in this information when the doctor made his way to my front door.

  He stood on the doorstep admiring the view for a moment.

  I also breathed in the clear air as if to banish the grim story he had shared with me.

  I saw a bicycle leaning against my garden gate and realized he had cycled all the way uphill to reach me. Before I could thank him, he made for the gate, saying over his shoulder, “Call me if you have any problems. I will be in touch the next time I am passing Perranporth in the vet van.”

  I watched him speed down the hill and would have stood there marvelling, had the Catling not chosen this moment to mew plaintively for my attention.

  I had a bottle to fill with the new food and a lot to think about if I was to join the search to find the person or persons who cared so little for young creatures.

  What Dr. Hudson did not know about me was that I had resources he could not even imagine in his wildest dreams. He had unwittingly enlisted the help of a psychic and seer, who would bend her mind to this task just as soon as she had a couple of nights of decent sleep.

  Ten

  My days now included visits from John and Sarah next door. The progress of Catling was of great interest to the children, and their mother had to curtail their idea of bringing along their classmates to the show.

  I did not have the heart to dismiss the two neighbour children as Pauline insisted on relieving me of my duties as soon as her husband had time off from his search and rescue duties.

  Clark, a large strong bear of a man, took over his household while Pauline camped on a chair in my house and fed Catling for one whole night.

  I woke the following day feeling renewed and ready to tackle my self-imposed task.

  As soon as Pauline returned home, I took out my phone and took a photo of Catling for my record of her progress. Then I focussed all my attention on the photograph I had taken of the black bag.

  Catling was safely stowed, asleep on her cushion in the centre of a soft chair while I stood by the window. I knew what to expect. When all my concentration was applied to one end like this, I usually had results.

  Everything around me grew dim. I was back on the side of the river. I heard the plop as the bag of tiny creatures hit the water. I could not see all of the person who did this criminal act, but I caught a glimpse of feet in muddy black boots with laces untied. I could not tell if those boots belonged to a man, woman or child. Next, I focussed on the bag itself. The photograph I took was not clear, but in the river, the water entering the bag filled up the space inside and, for a moment only, the marks became clearer. I thought there were letters intertwined. Possibly two Os or Cs.

  Definitely not Coco Chanel! It could be part of some other design.

  I pulled myself back to the present. I did not wish to see the moment when my tiny Catling fought her way out of that death bag.

  My heart was pounding with anger. I did not have enough to go on. Delay in identifying the source would mean more young creatures might meet a horrible end.

  I busied myself around the house with my new energy to distract my dark thoughts and calm my heart.

  In the afternoon, with my Catling asleep and full of the fortified milk that satisfied her hunger for longer at a time, I asked Pauline to bring the children over while I drove to the town for supplies. I needed more hand towels and face cloths as well as quick meals for myself. Fresh fish and green vegetables were on my list.

  It was to be a fast trip but I was amazed at how relieved I felt to be out of the house and the survival tasks I had set myself. It was like a new world outside where ordinary people did not have the worries I had taken on. I saw one or two local people with their dogs and saw how much they enjoyed their outings. I still saw no cats around town and was glad of that. The reminder of the little bodies in the black bag that would not get a chance to grow to be cats, would haunt me forever, I feared.

  My shopping stowed in the car, I drove uphill in a better frame of mind. I had collected a few treats for John and Sarah to thank them for loaning their parents to me, and I handed these out. It was a chance to ask John about his St. Piran’s flag.

  It was Sarah, who responded first.

  “The black background is for the stone on the saint’s fire that leaked a white metal called tin. The white cross means good overcomes evil.”

  John added, “Sarah you forgot to say how important tin mining was to the Cornish people. Our teacher says ships from all over the world came here to get it and our Saint Piran discovered tin.”

  I thanked the children for their information and hoped that flag’s message would help in my search for the criminals.

  Good does not always overcome evil in my experience, but there is always hope that it will.

  That night I was restless. Catling needed to cuddle up to a warm body. She crawled instinctively up to where she could feel my heart beating. I covered her with my hand and remained upright all night against my pillows so she was not disturbed until feeding time. I used a warmed washcloth to stroke her body after feeding, as a mother cat would do to stimulate digestion.

  These necessary activities sometimes woke me for an hour and so the cycle would begin again.

  After the third time, I fell into a doze and dreamed of the black bag. It was a strange and fractured dream. The only thing I was able to extract from the images that flew around like birds was the one that woke me completely.

  The letters entwined on the bag were C and C. I had seen them before in the shopping gallery in Exeter.

  They meant Crawley’s Cuties, the name of the pet shop.

  Eleven

  With this new information on my mind, I could not rest until I contacted the Vet Van Service number. When I asked for Dr. Hudson, his secretary informed me he was out at a call in Newquay but would try to check in with me on his way back to base in Penzance. I told the girl not to bother him about a visit, just to ask h
im to call me when he had time.

  I was in a state of nervous anxiety while I waited for the vet’s call. I tried to calm down because my restless actions alarmed Catling. She cried out more than once, demanding my body warmth. I took one of the larger towels and devised a kind of sling around my neck. Her little body lay inside the sling close to my heart, and she fell asleep there at once. I was then able to move freely around the house doing simple tasks, preparing her milk for the bottle and arranging fast meals for myself. I really wanted to go outside and sit near the lavender pot on the chair there, but I feared a passing cool breeze might chill Catling and set back the good progress she was making.

  The phone rang at eight at night. By then I had devised what to say to the doctor.

  “Thank you for calling. First of all, Catling is doing well on the fortified milk.

  I know you have had a long day, Dr. Hudson, so I will make this brief. I deciphered the lettering on the black bag and it is connected to a pet shop in Exeter called Crawley’s Cuties.”

  I stopped there, and waited for a reaction. I could not go into how I had found this information. If he chose to discount it without real proof, there was nothing more I could do, under the present circumstances.

  After what seemed like an age, he spoke.

  “That is useful information. As it happens, I have dealt with this pet shop before now. Its methods are not acceptable, but it survives in order to please parents who like to give gifts of young animals to their children. The owners of Crawley’s Cuties have no compunction about doing this without checking home conditions or the age of the children.”

  I was immensely relieved. Then he carried on and my heart sank.

  “Unfortunately, I have had trouble with these owners. I reported them to the RSPCA. An inspection was carried out, subsequent to my report, but no infractions were discovered at the Exeter premises. I believe they own a property somewhere else where they conduct illegal operations. It demands time for a wide search in acres of Cornish countryside to find the source of their operations, and I do not have the time for that.”