Joe carrying MumCat
I like graveyards, but I’ve always found English ones rather depressing. Headstones are often vandalised and graves lie untended, with withered bouquets left to rot and fake flowers fading in overturned pots. Spanish cemeteries are much more cheerful places, particularly El Hoyo’s. White walls encircle neat gravestones and vases of fresh flowers provide plenty of colour. Plaques with smiling photographs of the deceased can be seen on every wall, glinting in the sunshine. Birds settle in the ancient tree and sing to the dear departed.
The cemetery has a little ante-room with sinks and running water and a table made of flagstones. The table is big, designed to rest coffins on, I suspect, not just for flower arranging. But having never, as yet, attended a village funeral, I’m not sure.
Outside was unsheltered and hot, so we decided to place the box under the huge table in the ante-room. I ran home and gathered together catfood, milk and bowls. By the time I returned, all three kittens had latched on to MumCat and were feeding eagerly.
“Well, that’s that,” said Joe. “They’ll be okay now.”
But that night I couldn’t sleep. Today was a weekday and El Hoyo was quiet, but the weekend was looming. Although we loved the villagers, we were realistic. We knew that most Spanish people consider village cats to be vermin. If the kittens were discovered their destiny would hang in the balance. At best they would be tormented, at worst, destroyed. And what if a funeral took place in the near future? Their situation was precarious indeed. I tossed and turned.
“Go to sleep,” Joe growled, but I couldn’t.
At last morning arrived, and I broached the subject to Joe.
“Joe, I don’t think MumCat and her kittens are safe in the cemetery. I think somebody will find them and hurt them. You know the village is already awash with feral cats, and three more aren’t going to be welcome.” I expected Joe to argue, but he didn’t.
“No, you’re right, I was thinking that myself. Too many people go into the cemetery and somebody’s going to find them. But where else can we put them?”
“We could put them in our woodshed.”
“Yes, we could... But what about Sylvia and Gravy?”
“They may all be related, you never know, perhaps they’ll get on well together.”
“Okay Vicky, but we are not keeping them, you know that, don’t you? It’s just a temporary measure. We can’t take on four more cats.”
We walked back to the cemetery where all was quiet and well. MumCat jumped out of the box to welcome us and the kittens looked fine, even the little runt, the last born. Their fur had fluffed out a little during the night, and we could see that all three were white.
Moving the family again was easy, thanks to MumCat’s trusting nature and hearty appetite. I called her and let her sniff the cat-food, then walked down the street, showing her the food at regular intervals. She followed without a fuss. Joe brought up the rear carrying the bowl with the three kittens squirming and wriggling on the straw. MumCat looked over her shoulder a few times to check on her babies but appeared otherwise unconcerned.
Our woodshed is not really a shed at all. It’s a brick-built structure with walls on three sides and a tiled, sloping roof. Being April, there wasn’t much wood stacked in there, so Joe placed the bowl in a corner. MumCat glanced up, but was too busy eating to fret.
All went well and we didn’t really need to do a thing: MumCat had it all in paw. She fed those kittens until their tummies were round and tight, and washed them all day long.
Poor Sylvia and Gravy made an appearance but were chased out of the garden by MumCat. We were concerned, but found a way round the problem by feeding them on the roof terrace, out of MumCat’s line of vision.
But the nagging worry remained. Suddenly we were responsible for three new little lives, and their mother. What were we going to do with all these cats? We knew we’d never find homes for them as we seldom mixed in expat circles, and no locals would want them. So I turned to the Internet and posted our problem on some expat forums, including AlmerimarLife.com, asking for advice.
2010-04-19 13:02:10
Like most places in Spain, there are dozens of feral cats in our village.
Joe and I are familiar with this particular cat because of her china blue eyes and Siamese looks, and she is much tamer than most. We’d noticed she was pregnant, but we certainly didn’t expect her to give birth in the street right outside our front door.
This is the YouTube video of what happened next:
(Turn volume on) http://youtu.be/pceTSk00Fjc
Anyway, we had to move them again, and now they are in our woodshed, safe from dogs and human interference.
The problem is, we can't keep them as we already care for and feed two other wild cats.
So, is there anyone who could offer a home to any of them when they're weaned? Their eyes aren't open yet, but if they are anything like Mum, they are going to be beautiful with extraordinary blue eyes and Siamese markings. We'll carry on looking after Mum and get her spayed, but we can't keep the kittens, too.
Can anyone in the Almeria area help? (Keeping my fingers crossed.)
Victoria
The only person to respond was Sandra Marshall, co-owner of AlmerimarLife.com. She was in the UK at the time, unable to return home because of the Icelandic volcanic dust cloud that was grounding all flights.
2010-04-19 21:35:52
Hi Victoria. Yes I will try and help. I am Chris's wife and I and friends rescue stray animals and re-home them. Check out my blog Alstrays.com.
I am currently stranded in the UK but if you send telephone numbers and email I will contact you when I get home.
I'm assuming we are looking at 4-6 weeks from now anyway?
Where exactly are you?
If the mother is sweet we may be able to help her too. She is very beautiful.
Sandra
What a relief! I got in touch with Sandra and she hatched a plan. Joe and I would foster the family and bring them to the vet for routine vaccinations. Meanwhile, Sandra and Alstrays would search out homes for them. Surprisingly, the new homes would be in Germany. Every few months, Alstrays packed a truck crammed with cats and dogs and drove them to waiting German owners.
I liked the idea. I liked the thought of watching the kittens grow up in the safety of our garden, knowing they had homes awaiting them. I also liked the fact that they weren’t going to join the feral cat community in the village, forced to scrounge food, uncared for. I wasn’t sure if Joe would agree as he’d made it clear we weren’t keeping them, and Sandra’s plan meant we’d have them with us for a couple of months. I broke the news gently to Joe and was greatly relieved when he didn’t seem to object to this temporary arrangement.
“Okay,” he said, “if it’s just for two months. But they’re not coming into the house because we’ll just get too attached to them.”
I promised. I thoroughly enjoyed watching MumCat nurturing her little family, even if it was only in the garden.
Very soon, the two first-born kittens’ eyes opened, followed by the little runt. They looked blue, and I hoped they’d all inherit that unusual, azure colour their mother was blessed with. All three grew stronger daily, the two big kittens vigorously wriggling around the box, often flattening their weaker, smaller sibling. I could see other differences, too. Their colouring was changing; the ears and tails were becoming darker on all three.
At the moment they were nameless and I had no idea of their gender. Being no expert, I consulted the Internet, and, armed with my new-found knowledge, approached their box.
“They’re so tiny!” I said to Joe. “I’m almost scared to pick them up in case I hurt them.”
“Oh, they’re stronger than they look.”
MumCat didn’t complain when I picked each kitten up and turned it over for a careful examination. The two big ones protested noisily and tried to squirm out of my hand. The little kitten was much more placid, and didn’t object at all to the ha
ndling and undignified close scrutiny.
The runt of the litter
Two big girls and a little boy! Even knowing that, we made no effort to name them for fear of becoming too attached. But already they were developing personalities and their markings were changing daily.
Every morning, before I’d even had a coffee or dressed, I’d saunter down the garden to see how they were all faring and fill MumCat’s saucers with food and milk. But one morning, I was confronted with an empty box of straw. There was not a cat or kitten in sight.
24 Traps
Fried Chorizo in Garlic
We searched the garden: behind flower-pots, in the shrubs, amongst the wood-pile, in the chicken coop. Nothing.
“Well, that’s that, then,” said Joe. “They’re gone. We’d better tell Sandra and stop her finding new homes for them.”
But I wasn’t giving up that easily. I thought hard.
“Where could they have gone? Do you think they were stolen? But we haven’t told anybody about them, nobody knows they’re here...” I was thinking aloud.
I carried on searching until I heard a tiny squeak. I froze and listened again. No, I wasn’t imagining it, another squeak. I looked around. Where was it coming from?
“Joe, listen! Did you hear that?”
“Yes, I did...”
So Joe and I played Follow the Squeak which led us to the barbecue. The barbecue was waist high, and below the grill was a metal box that Paco had welded for us. It was a lovely simple design: a box that holds burning charcoal, with grooves to rest one’s kebab sticks. There was no doubt, the squeaks were coming from behind the box. I pulled the box forward a few inches, to reveal MumCat and three kittens, all squashed into the tiny space behind.
“What are you doing in there?” I asked Mumcat. “Surely your box with the straw in it is much more comfortable?”
“If that’s where she’s chosen, that’s where we should leave her,” said Joe.
“But they’ll fall out!” I protested. I really didn’t think that MumCat had given her new nursery enough thought.
“The kittens aren’t moving around much yet,” said Joe. “I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”
We retreated back inside to watch from the kitchen window, and we didn’t have long to wait. The kittens hadn’t properly found their feet yet, but they could squirm beautifully. Before we could intercept it, one of the big kittens had wriggled to the edge, teetered, then tumbled to the ground with a squawk and an unpleasant dull thud. I ran outside, but MumCat had beaten me to it.
First she gave her baby a good wash, then she scruffed it, and leaped back onto the barbecue, the fat little kitten dangling limply from her mouth. The kitten seemed unhurt in spite of the perilous drop and the undignified landing on the unforgiving paving stones below. I shook my head. No, the barbecue was not a good choice, even Joe agreed.
I reached into the back of the barbecue, and winkled out the kittens, one by one. Then I carried each carefully back to the straw-filled box in the wood-shed. The two girls cried and fought all the way, but the little chap sat in my hands, calmly surveying his surroundings. Unfortunately, MumCat did not agree with my decision. By the time I reached the box with the third kitten, she’d already whisked the first one away, stashed it back in the barbecue and was returning for the second.
“You and I need to talk,” I said to MumCat as she collected the last kitten. “This won’t do. The barbecue is not a good place to raise your family.”
So I sat down on the step and MumCat wound herself around my legs, arching her back for strokes. I told her that the barbecue was a foolish place to keep her babies, that they’d keep falling out, there wasn’t enough space, etc., etc. She stated that the woodshed was too public, and that she objected to the other village cats disturbing her family during the night. I asked her if she was willing to compromise? How about if I made her a nice bed in the cupboard under the sink, next to the barbecue? I’d jam the cupboard door ajar so she and the kittens could get in and out, and they’d be safe. At least they’d be on ground level and couldn’t harm themselves.
“I don’t know why you talk to that cat. She’s a Spanish cat, she doesn’t even speak English,” Joe said.
I ignored him. I went inside and collected a couple of old sweaters, to make a comfortable bed in the cupboard. Finally, I lifted the kittens into the cupboard and stood back to watch. MumCat had already checked out the cupboard and now demonstrated her approval. Entering, she flopped down on her side, purring, encircling the kittens. They nuzzled her and settled down to feed while she washed their heads. The new nursery was a success.
I loved the new arrangement because I could see the cupboard clearly from the kitchen. MumCat was the perfect mother and the kittens thrived. Their markings changed even more: the little girls’ ears darkening while their coats stayed snowy with haphazard beige streaks. The little boy grew more beautiful every day, blessed with typical Siamese colouring, darker than his sisters. His ears were too big for him, probably borrowed from a bat-eared fox, but I forgave him that. One of the little girls, the naughty one that had tumbled out of the barbecue, developed a comical smudge on her face. She looked as though she’d stuck her nose up a sooty chimney, so Smut seemed an obvious name. Joe, who’d sworn that we wouldn’t name these feline scraps, christened the other little girl Beauty. And, for obvious reasons, the little boy became known as Choccy-Paws, abbreviated to Chox unless he was in trouble.
11 days old
For the first week or so, we saw little of the kittens, but as they became bolder and developed more control of their feet, little faces began to appear, peeping round the cupboard door. Of course, adventurous Smut was the first, followed by Beauty, and Chox a day later. They invented their first game, one that kept them amused for a good proportion of every day. The game was called ‘Paws under the Door’ and involved one kitten lying on its side outside, swatting at its siblings’ paws that fleetingly appeared in the gap under the door. I’d jammed the door slightly ajar with a wooden wedge so there was no risk of squashed paws.
While our kitten family was thriving, I worried about the other cats in the village. I’m perfectly aware that it’s the same all over Spain. The Spanish rarely neuter or spay their own pet cats, so the problem escalates. Cats run wild and their numbers are not controlled. Every spring countless new batches of kittens appear. The weak ones rarely survive but the remainder grow up to produce yet more kittens to add to the feral population.
I wondered how we could help. Even though our finances were limited, couldn’t we do something? It was when we were tidying the garage one day that an idea occurred to me.
When we first bought our house, the previous owner had left all his farming paraphernalia. There were scythes, hoes, shovels, a beehive and all sorts of other curious objects we couldn’t identify. There was also a cage, which after examination, we established was a trap. It was quite long and narrow, with an entrance that could be hooked open. Any creature that walked inside and touched the mechanism was trapped as the cage door slammed shut. I wondered what sort of creature the previous owner had trapped.
“Joe?”
“Hmm?”
“What do you think of this idea?” I asked, blowing the dust off the trap. “What if we put something tasty in this trap, and try to catch some village cats? We could run them down to the vet, get them neutered, and then set them free again.”
Joe stared at me, then gave his nethers a good scratch.
“Do you know how many cats there are in this village? Even if we caught some, it would hardly make much of a difference, would it?”
“I know, but it’s a start isn’t it?”
“It sounds expensive,” he said. “How much does it cost to neuter a cat?”
That troubled look had returned to his eyes. Was it money that was bothering him? I knew things had been tight since the Credit Crisis and that Joe’s military pension had shrunk alarmingly. Was it money he was fretting about? Yet again I
made a mental note to tackle him about it as soon as an opportunity arose.
“Well, I don’t know... I thought I’d ask Sandra at Alstrays. I know their vet will do it at cost price. It wouldn’t cost much, would it?”
“No, maybe not. How would we set the trap?”
“We could put some ham or something into it, then leave it overnight on that waste ground next to the cemetery. I know we can’t afford to do many, but anything would help, wouldn’t it? It would stop a few litters of kittens being born.”
“Hmm...”
Joe didn’t sound convinced but he helped me bait the trap that evening. As the sun lowered in the sky, Joe and I carried the trap and found a good spot on the wasteland. The birds had already gone to bed and the village was deserted. I put a nice lump of ham in the trap, knowing that most cats would find it irresistible.
The next morning I was impatient to see if the trap had been successful. Even as Joe and I approached, we knew we had a result. The trap was the centre of attention for at least a dozen village cats, some circling it, others crouched in the grass, watching. Two cats were actually standing on top of the trap, trying to fish their paws through the bars.
“That’s amazing!” I said. “Look, isn’t that nice? We’ve obviously caught a really popular one and all its friends are trying to rescue it! I wonder if it’s a female or a tom?”
The cats scattered as we drew close and we were able to see inside the trap.
“Oh! I can see it now! It’s a big black and white...”
“Magpie,” said Joe.
The poor magpie was living its worst nightmare. First it was trapped in a cage, then tormented by dozens of cats, and finally dreaded humans had arrived to make its life even more miserable. It flapped and threw itself at the cage sides, desperate to escape.
“Oh, poor thing!” I said.
Two Old Fools - Olé! Page 16
