There was no sign of the cat anywhere but a closer inspection of the wall around a warped wooden shelf revealed more spots of blood and a well-defined route of scratch marks leading upwards. Judging from the signs I’d seen, the cat was bleeding badly and possibly wouldn’t last much longer without help. It could be anywhere in the roof area and it probably wouldn’t be safe for me to go up there even if I somehow managed the climb. Then I remembered that when I came in I’d noticed a ladder lying near the entrance to the barn.
Hurrying back to the front of the building I found the wooden ladder half-buried in dirt. Pulling it free I saw that two rungs were missing. It looked to be in a poor state but I thought it might be worth giving it a try. Quickly propping the ladder up against the wall where I believed the cat had climbed, I found it reached right up to where there was a sort of hatchway into the roof. The ladder must have been used in the past to gain access to a hay store in the loft. The hatchway didn’t look too high so I thought I’d chance it. If I still couldn’t find the cat after this effort, then I’d go home.
I cautiously inched my way up the rickety ladder. I was now more than ever determined to see this thing through to the end. I am not that keen on heights at the best of times but by now I knew that what I was doing was madly reckless. What if I fell and broke a leg? Would anybody find me? In spite of these acute anxieties, I continued to climb.
Pushing and shoving my way up against dusty, cobwebbed timbers, I eased myself between the rotting planks and crawled out on to the floor above. Remnants of straw and hay were strewn all around and the impression I had was that everything was in a state of near collapse. Towards the rear end of the loft there was an opening to the outside, with a patch of windblown snow around it. Possibly this had once been a loading bay. Bird-droppings littered part of the flooring and looking up I could just make out the shapes of last summer’s swallow nests. Shafts of moonlight seeped through the gaps between the sprung timbers of the roof and softly illumined the dark-beamed joists and warped floorboards of the loft stretching out before me. The question was, where had the cat gone?
As I slowly looked around I heard a wet licking sound which drew me to a corner where, amid the debris of leaves and straw, the silver-grey cat had come to rest. Not wishing to alarm it in any way and mindful of its claws, I cautiously approached and, from a safe distance, peered into the recess. Was this its den? Had it crawled here to die as badly wounded wild animals have been known to do? As I edged slowly closer, a moonbeam slanted through a hole in the roof and momentarily lit up the corner. I realized that I had been witness to the most powerful of all instincts in the animal kingdom. The silver-grey cat was a mother, driven by the maternal instinct to return to succour her two kittens. In front of me, a rough nest had been scraped together for her family. Not trusting the loose timbers to accommodate my weight while standing, I crawled nearer on hands and knees until I was at last able to inspect the family by the dim moonlight.
They were a pitiful sight. The kittens, as far as I could see were at most only a couple of weeks old and merely frail bundles of skin and bone covered in ragged fur. They hardly seemed to move at all, despite the she-cat’s insistent licking as she worked feverishly to caress some life into them. They had obviously been left on their own for some considerable time. I stared aghast at what I’d found and it filled me with despair. The she-cat seemed oblivious to her own plight, determined to mother her kittens at all costs. Perhaps it was already too late, but I felt I had to make the effort to seek help for them, especially after making it this far.
Transporting them was more easily accomplished than I’d expected. I found a remnant of sacking, dusty with chaff and seed husks but dry and warm nonetheless. The she-cat watched me, wide-eyed and strangely gentle, as I carefully lifted her mangled body on to the sacking, followed by the tiny, frail kittens. She must have been in great pain as I moved her but all the fight and fear appeared to have bled out of her and she was content now that she was back with her kittens. There were a few anxious moments when I came to descend the ladder but, apart from a number of painfully bruising jolts, I succeeded in reaching the floor of the barn without mishap. From there I hurried home by a more direct and, I hoped, easier route than the one by which I’d come.
The ground outside was frozen hard and I found myself stumbling and skidding with the effort of carrying the cat and her kittens over frozen patches of snow and ice. I was more worried about their safety than my own and a couple of times I lost my balance and thudded down, saving them from dropping at the expense of falling hard. I was beginning to ache in places that I’d forgotten I had.
At one point I decided to cross a field in order to shorten the journey but it proved to be a time-consuming mistake. I found myself struggling through deep drifts and stumbling over concealed stones and other debris. Nevertheless, I kept going as fast as the deep snow and the care of my charges would allow.
I reached the cottage almost on the point of collapse. Even though I was feeling physically worn-out and emotionally drained, I wasted no time and began to summon help. It was just after 9 p.m.; the whole episode had taken a mere two hours yet it seemed an eternity since I had been relaxing in front of the fire. Directory Enquiries gave me a number to telephone and soon the three casualties were safe in the boot of my car as I drove as fast as conditions would allow, along roads covered in snow, to the local veterinary clinic in Alnwick. Their fate would soon be in the hands of a professional and my task, thankfully, would be over. Or so I thought at the time.
Arriving home from the vet’s some two hours later with the sole remaining kitten still, hopefully, warm and safe in my pocket, I felt weakened and fatigued by the evening’s turn of events. It had all happened so quickly that it was difficult for me to fully comprehend that it really had occurred. The cottage was warm and friendly in contrast to the brutal weather outside and after the disappointment of losing the mother cat and her kitten, it was uplifting to feel the comfort of familiar surroundings again.
Gingerly, I removed the surviving kitten from my pocket and placed him with great care on to a woollen rug near the fire. At first I couldn’t tell whether he was alive or not but suddenly the tiny creature sneezed, probably due to the dust in my pocket. It was at that moment I realized the enormity of the task that lay ahead of me. Here I was, expected to play nursemaid to a little wild animal that was only about two-weeks old and barely alive. I was totally inexperienced for this task and suddenly felt quite inadequate. What had I been thinking of to get myself into such a predicament?
The odds against me having any chance at all of rearing the kitten successfully were too far-fetched to even consider. But all my efforts throughout this evening had been motivated by feelings of compassion for a badly injured cat that, as it turned out, had been killed by human cruelty. I had brought the surviving kitten home as an act of mercy, rather than having it put to death, but I hadn’t thought it through. I began to reflect that possibly I had been too impulsive. Nevertheless, as it was a problem of my own making I would just have to do what I could in the circumstances.
I was reminded of times past when, as a boy, I’d gone fishing for minnows only to find that my catch couldn’t survive captivity in a jam jar. So I would trek back to the lake to set them free again. This felt like a similar situation except that this time I could not face the humiliation of taking the kitten back to the vet.
After a recuperative mug of tea and a short spell by the fireside, I felt in a better mood to tackle the problem. Anyway, I thought, the creature will probably pass away any minute now. The image of the injured she-cat returned to haunt me. I was suffering from feelings of guilt towards the kitten on behalf of my fellow humans who had killed his mother. As a lover of wild creatures and the countryside I know that gamekeepers and hunters use various trapping devices against animal life in the fields and woods, but I think the practice of using gin-traps is particularly wicked. Aimed at safeguarding flocks of pheasants and grouse so that th
e landed gentry and their guests can shoot them down in mid-August, it causes the deaths of innocent victims. Unsuspecting animals, such as rabbits, weasels, pine martens, foxes and badgers, who step on the trap release a spring holding back serrated iron jaws which trap the animal’s foot. Many creatures have been known to bite through their ensnared limb in order to escape, only to die later from blood loss or an infection; others, such as the mother cat, writhe in awful agony and face a slow and pain-filled death. Since that fateful night when the silver-grey cat died, I have made it my business to destroy gin-traps wherever I find them on my country walks.
My immediate and most pressing problem was what I could do to successfully rear this pathetic little creature, a true orphan of the storm. Whenever in my life I have been uncertain about what to do, I have found the best answer is to actually do something straightaway, but without panicking, and to think about it in depth later. I wanted to avoid making a terrible mistake, though: there was a life at stake here.
Grabbing the poker I wrestled the dying fire into an all-warming blaze. Then I embarked upon a course of action. I knew that the kitten needed to be fed as soon as possible. I remembered that somewhere in a copy of Reader’s Digest I’d read an account of a woman who’d reared an abandoned litter of puppies who were only a few weeks old. Initially, she’d fed them by using a fountain pen to squeeze a kind of milky mixture into their mouths. Surely, I said to myself, I must have an old fountain pen somewhere. Hurriedly searching through the congested rubbish in the drawers of my desk I retrieved an old Swan fountain pen. In great haste, I flushed out the dried ink sac and removed the pen nib. From the limited resources available to me, I filled the ink sac with some tinned evaporated milk which I fortified with halibut oil squeezed from a gelatine capsule. Next, I heated the mixture by immersing it briefly in a cup of warm water. I hoped that the kitten would accept this milky concoction.
I had never held any living thing which was as fragile as this. Holding the tiny body firmly, I gently opened the diminutive mouth with two of my fingers and, taking the pen sac in my other hand, I squeezed some of the milky solution into its mouth. The resulting reaction was both explosive and at the same time reassuring. The formerly dormant and almost lifeless body went into a convulsion of spluttering and gasping and then a minute pink tongue emerged to the accompaniment of gasps and wheezes. At least the little thing is still alive, I thought as I continued to squeeze some liquid into the tiny mouth. Gaining confidence from this show of life, I set about completing what his late lamented mother had started when I found her.
First of all, I cleaned the kitten all over. With cotton wool buds soaked in warm water I washed it down and cut away the matted tufts from its sparse fur coat. As all cat lovers know, for cats washing is not only routine care, it is a way of life and I hoped what I was doing would be therapeutic. Soon, I noticed that the kitten’s body had begun to tremble and quiver all over with barely audible sneezes and snorting noises as if its whole being was coming alive again. Wet and dishevelled-looking after its bed bath, it presented an endearing picture of frailty and baby-animal innocence.
There were bald patches on its head, hind parts and stomach, while its eyes were gummed shut with semi-hardened pus. In the gentlest way I could, I nursed the little being and then became afraid to do any more in case the attention caused it to go into remission and die on me. Using a hairdryer on a low setting, I dried it as best I could. Then placing it very carefully in front of the fire in a cardboard box lined with a blanket, I retired to my bed, weary and worn out by all the effort and worry of a dramatic night. I slipped at once into a relaxed doze, consoled by the thought that I’d done all I could for the kitten.
As I drifted off I mused upon my emotions which were already becoming attached to this little creature. I had saved it from what was almost certain death twice. Firstly, by freeing its mother from the trap and, secondly, by preventing the vet from putting it down because its chances of survival without a mother were nil. It began to register in my sleepy mind that I had accepted a challenge which would require enormous luck as well as determination and effort. And then it dawned upon me that I was no longer thinking of the kitten as an ‘it’ but as a ‘him’. Too tired to think anymore, I slipped into a deep sleep.
Fortunately, the following day was Saturday which I would normally spend at home. In view of last night’s adventures, this was to prove fortunate in the kitten’s struggle for survival. As soon as I awoke I remembered everything that had transpired the night before with startling clarity. I wanted to rush out of bed immediately and check that the kitten had not died during the night. I didn’t, though, because I was scared of what I might find. As I lay in bed worrying I began to think negative thoughts like those I’d had the night before regarding the immensity of the task facing me. For one thing I very much enjoyed leading an independent life with as few ties and commitments as possible. Having a sick kitten to look after would certainly intrude upon my space and freedom. And ideally the little creature needed good nurturing from his mother for at least another month. ‘Face reality!’ I told myself. But the she-cat was no longer with us and I had impulsively, but nonetheless willingly, taken responsibility for at least trying to salvage something worthwhile from the tragedy. It was therefore my job to see it through to some kind of satisfactory conclusion. Resolving to deal sensibly with whatever I would find downstairs, I got out of bed.
There are many advantages to living in an ancient stone cottage with walls which are almost three feet thick. One of these is the insulation from the world outside, not only in terms of sound but also temperature. On the hottest days of summer the inside of the cottage is pleasantly cool, shielded by the thick stone walls from the heat outside. In winter the reverse is true as the heat from the fire is retained by those very same stone walls. Downstairs was still warm from yesterday’s fire, giving it a homely atmosphere.
Apprehensively, I approached the box in which I’d placed the kitten. At first I couldn’t see him but on closer inspection there he lay: a coiled mite of fur with only the slightest body movements which I took to be his breathing. I felt rewarded beyond my wildest hopes but knew it was too early to expect that everything would be alright.
Feeling really happy, I set about restoring the cottage to good order and soon the fire was blazing and the smell of coffee and grilled bacon filled the air so that everything felt cosy and warm, in sharp contrast to the wintry scenes outdoors. Overnight the weather had grown more severe and temperatures had dropped below freezing. Later, when I replenished the bird-table with the breakfast leftovers, the thermometer near the birdbath read -5C. Opening the front door to collect the milk required a supreme effort because the windblown snow had frozen and sealed the door edges to the frame during the night. It also required a big effort to free the bottles from the ice which held them fast. The milkman must have had a superhuman struggle to deliver the milk at all. I was most thankful for his toil.
The open porch had been transformed overnight into an ice house, festooned with long icicles sparkling in the morning sun. Inspecting the frozen bottles of milk I saw that the blue tits had been there before me and had pecked neat little holes in the silver tops. Nearby, in a stand of pine trees across the road, a pair of magpies chittered in annoyance at me. Obviously, they also had their eyes on the milk.
The wintry scenery was breathtaking in its beauty but piercingly cold. The trees drooped under heavy garlands of snow. In addition there was an otherworldliness about everything, cloaked as it was in arctic white. The sound of the traffic was muffled as were the cries of the children sledging on the snowbanks above the river, a happy reminder of my own childhood in winters past.
Returning indoors, the temptation was to huddle up by the fire with a hot drink and observe the snowy wilderness through the glass of the patio door. Rousing myself from the desire to spend the day cosseted as a ‘couch potato’ in the armchair by the fireside, I began to address the more immediate problems of rearing
the sole survivor of last night’s storm.
That day was spent working urgently to save the kitten from reaching a life-threatening point of no return. I fed him with the fountain pen sac and kept him warm. I washed and cleaned him, stroking him with a cotton wool ball lightly dipped in lukewarm water to mimic his mother’s licking and grooming behaviour. During it all I spoke tenderly to him to soothe him and encourage him to live. I did little else but minister to the kitten, even to the point of sitting next to his box, which lay close to the hearth, whilst I was sipping a hot drink. I sat by him, coffee mug in hand, watching him anxiously and speaking to him softly as he slept the day away.
Looking at him as he slept, I was in awe of the capacity of cats to sleep at will and with absolute relaxation. We have created the term ‘catnap’ to describe the luxury of a short but reviving sleep, often taken in the comfort of a favourite armchair. For cats, sleeping is not only restful but also a healing process and I fervently hoped that was the case for this kitten. Still, healing takes time. This kitten needed time to sleep in safety, as well as warmth, with food and lots of tender loving care. My cottage had been effectively turned into a nursing home to enable this tiny cat to live as a testament not only to his own instinct for survival, but to my adamant refusal to abandon him and, of course, to my commitment to his care.
Paw Prints in the Moonlight Page 2
