A Kitten Called Holly

by Helen Peters

  “And what about the museum?” asked Mum.

  “Lunch was really good,” said Manu. “Noah didn’t like his sandwiches, so we swapped, and his mum uses this really soft white bread that you can squidge into balls and throw at people. You should buy that sort of bread, Mum.”

  “So what did you learn about King Charles the Second?” asked Dad.

  Both boys looked blank. “What?”

  “King Charles the Second. Isn’t that who you were supposed to be learning about?”

  “Oh, we didn’t really listen to that bit,” said Manu. “We were playing with this bit of playdough Ben found in his pocket.”

  “Everyone was sitting on the floor crosslegged,” said Ben, “and we were sticking little blobs of playdough on the bottom of people’s shoes in front of us. So when they stood up their shoes were all sticky on the floor and they didn’t know why. It was so funny.”

  “Great,” said Dad. “Excellent. Time well spent, then.”

  “What if the kitten’s still there when we go back?” asked Jasmine.

  Ella looked up from her book. “What kitten?”

  “We found a nest of kittens,” Jasmine said.

  “Where?” asked Manu, an excited gleam in his eyes.

  Tom shot Jasmine a warning look.

  “Just in the farmyard,” said Jasmine vaguely. “In one of the buildings. Anyway, the cat’s moved them now.”

  “But you said a kitten might still be there,” said Manu.

  “Mum said the mother will have come back and fetched it,” said Jasmine.

  “Me and Ben will find them,” said Manu.

  “No, you mustn’t,” said Jasmine in alarm. “If you disturb them, the cat will move them again.”

  Jasmine ate her dinner as quickly as she could. As soon as Tom put the last of his spaghetti in his mouth, she said, “Please may we leave the table?”

  “Where are you going?” asked Manu.

  “Just up to my room.”

  She and Tom left the kitchen. But they didn’t go upstairs. Instead, Jasmine fetched a torch from the hall cupboard while Tom opened the front door as quietly as he could. Then they crept out into the dark garden.

  They didn’t expect to find anything in their clubhouse. The mother cat had had plenty of time to collect the third kitten. But as they drew near to the shed, they heard a high-pitched mewing.

  “Oh, no,” said Jasmine. “She hasn’t come back.”

  They tiptoed inside. Jasmine shone the torch to one side of the nest so as not to frighten the kitten by shining a light directly into its eyes.

  There, all alone, was the little black kitten. It was clearly distressed, crawling around in the straw, mewing urgently and continuously. Tears sprang to Jasmine’s eyes as she watched it.

  “We have to take it to its mother,” she said.

  “We can’t,” said Tom. “You said if she finds our scent on it, she’ll reject it.”

  “But look at it. It will die soon if it doesn’t get fed.”

  “We should leave,” said Tom. “She might be coming back right now.”

  “I don’t think she’s going to come,” said Jasmine. “She collected the second one right after the first, didn’t she? Why has she left this one so long?”

  Tom was silent for a minute. Then he said, “Let’s ask your mum what we should do.”

  Jasmine leaned over and spoke to the kitten. “We’ll be back in a minute, little one. We’re going to find out how to help you.”

  To their relief, Manu and Ben had left the kitchen by the time they got there. Mum and Dad were clearing the table. When Jasmine explained the situation, Mum looked thoughtful.

  “I’m afraid it sounds as though the mother has rejected this one,” she said. “Was it mewing when you first saw them?”

  “Yes,” said Tom. “The other two were lying there peacefully, but the black one was crawling around and mewing.”

  “Hmm,” said Mum. “So the mother had probably already rejected it. If the other two were quiet and content, they were probably well fed, but it sounds as though the black one was already hungry.”

  “Should we take it to the mother?” asked Jasmine.

  Mum shook her head. “No. If you take back the one she’s rejected, she might reject the others, too.”

  “So what should we do?” asked Jasmine. “If we leave it, it will die.”

  Mum and Dad exchanged a look. Jasmine glanced at Tom, and saw her own excitement mirrored in his face.

  “We can’t let it die, can we?” said Tom.

  Dad looked at Tom and then at Jasmine. “Clearly this kitten needs to be looked after,” he said. “So I guess you’d better bring it indoors.”

  “Calm down, you two,” said Mum, as Tom and Jasmine shrieked with excitement. “You can bring the kitten in and look after it, but we’re not having any more pets, Jasmine. You already have two cats, a dog, a pig and a duck. As soon as the kitten’s old enough, we’re going to find a home for it. Do you understand?”

  Jasmine looked despondent. But she said, “Yes, I understand.”

  “And you promise me you won’t beg and pester to keep it?”

  “I promise. Come on, Tom, let’s go and get our new kitten!”

  As they ran down the garden path, Jasmine turned to Tom. “I know I can’t keep the kitten,” she said, “but you could.”

  “I wish I could,” said Tom, “but Mum hates animals in the house. She only let me have the guinea pigs because they live in the garden. There’s no way she’d let me have a cat. I’ve asked her loads of times, but she’ll never change her mind.”

  The black kitten was mewing more piteously than ever when the children got back to the shed. Tom held the torch while Jasmine reached down and gently scooped up the tiny animal. It looked at her with its enormous blue eyes and mewed desperately.

  “It hardly weighs anything,” she said, stroking the kitten’s silky-soft fur.

  Tom cupped his hands. “Can I hold it?”

  Jasmine sat the tiny kitten in Tom’s hands. “I wonder if it’s a boy or a girl,” she said. “Mum will be able to tell.”

  “Hello, little kitten,” said Tom. “You’re so lovely.”

  “It’s starving,” said Jasmine. “Come on. We need to give it milk.”

  “I thought you said they couldn’t have milk,” Tom said, as they hurried back to the house.

  “Not cows’ milk. It probably needs a special kitten formula. I hope Mum’s got some in the car.”

  The boot of Mum’s car was always crammed with boxes of equipment and medicines for treating sick animals. As they got back to the kitchen, Mum came in through the other door, holding a plastic container with a picture of a cat on one side.

  “Oh, great,” said Jasmine, grabbing the tub. “You’ve got kitten milk.”

  “Calm down, Jasmine,” said Mum. “There’s no need to snatch.”

  “But it’s an emergency. The kitten’s starving.”

  Mum smiled at the mewling kitten. “What a sweet little thing.”

  Jasmine scanned the writing on the container, looking for instructions on how to prepare the formula.

  “It’s so cute,” said Tom, stroking the kitten. “Why would the mum reject it?”

  “I was going to talk to you both about that,” said Mum, as Jasmine opened the tub and took out the measuring scoop. “I know it’s impossible not to get attached to a beautiful kitten, but the problem is that nature often does know best.”

  Jasmine didn’t like the sound of this. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that when a cat rejects her kitten, she often does it for a reason. This kitten might not be completely healthy. It might have something wrong with it that isn’t obvious yet. I just want you to be prepared, that’s all.”

  “Prepared for what?” asked Jasmine. “Are you saying the kitten might die?”

  As Mum started to reply, her work phone rang. She pulled it from her pocket and walked into the hall to answer it.

 
Jasmine was used to conversations ending abruptly every time Mum’s phone rang. It always meant an animal emergency of some kind and, if Mum was on call, she had to drop everything and go.

  “Sorry, you two,” Mum said, when she reappeared. “I’ve got to go and see a horse over at Selham. Use a syringe to feed the kitten - very slowly, just a few drops at a time, because if the milk goes in too fast, it could go into the windpipe. I’ll get you a proper feeding bottle tomorrow. Dad’s in his office if you need anything.”

  Jasmine was measuring the powdered milk into a jam jar. “Could you just tell us if the kitten’s a boy or a girl?” she asked.

  Mum examined the kitten. “She’s a girl,” she said. “And you’re very beautiful, aren’t you?”

  She smiled at the kitten and handed her back to Tom. “Keep her warm,” she said. “That’s really important. And make sure she’s on her tummy in a sitting position when you feed her. Now I must shoot off.” She kissed the top of Jasmine’s head, grabbed her car keys and left.

  Jasmine held the measuring scoop under the hot tap. “Two parts water to one part formula,” she said. She tipped two scoops of water into the jar, screwed on the lid and shook it hard. “That’s quite a lot, but we can keep the rest in the fridge and warm up a bit for each feed.”

  Tom was studying the side of the formula tub. “We need to weigh her,” he said. “It says you have to feed them 8cc per ounce of weight every twenty-four hours. How much is 8cc?”

  “It should say on the syringe,” said Jasmine. “I’ll go and get one.”

  When she returned from the scullery with a plastic syringe, the little kitten was sitting in the kitchen scale pan, her blue eyes huge and frightened.

  “Six ounces,” said Tom. He lifted her out and held her against his jumper. “After we’ve fed her, I’ll make a proper chart, and we can write down her weight and how much she eats every day, like we did with Sky.”

  He took a notepad and pencil from the dresser. “So 8cc per ounce of weight means eight times six. How often does it say we should feed her?”

  Jasmine consulted the side of the tub. “Every three hours.”

  “Through the night as well?”

  “I guess so,” said Jasmine. “We’ll have to set the alarm.” Tom was staying for a sleepover.

  “Or we can just stay awake all night,” said Tom.

  Jasmine smiled. “That’s a much better idea.” She unscrewed the lid of the jar and swirled the milk around to check for lumps. “How much should we give her?”

  “6cc per feed,” said Tom, who had worked it out on the notepad.

  Jasmine dipped the syringe into the jar and drew up the plunger. She pushed back her jumper sleeve and dropped a little milk on to her wrist to check it was at body temperature.

  “Perfect,” she said. “You’re going to be fed now, little kitten.”

  She pushed the plunger down to the 6cc mark. “Do you want to feed her?” she asked Tom.

  “You should do it,” said Tom. “I got to hold her all this time. I’ll read up about looking after her.”

  Jasmine sat down and Tom passed the mewing kitten to her. Jasmine moved her finger to the kitten’s mouth to prise it open, but there was no need. The kitten opened her mouth and started to suck at her finger. Jasmine took the syringe and carefully dropped a little milk into her mouth.

  The kitten moved her head around and batted at the syringe with her front paws. Jasmine used her free hand to keep the paws away as she tried to keep the syringe in the kitten’s mouth and not spill the milk. It was hard to move the plunger slowly enough to only release a drop or two at a time.

  “It will be much easier once we have a bottle,” she said to Tom, when he returned with Mum’s laptop. “But at least she’s drinking. That’s a good sign.”

  “What shall we call her?” asked Tom.

  “You should name her,” said Jasmine. “I named Sky and Button and Truffle.”

  Tom narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Hmm.” He was silent for a minute and then he said, “Holly. I like that name. And there’s a holly bush right outside the shed where we found her.”

  “Holly,” said Jasmine. “That suits her.” She looked into the kitten’s blue eyes. “Hello, Holly. We’re going to look after you.”

  Manu came into the kitchen while Jasmine was giving Holly the last of her milk and Tom was reading advice online about looking after orphaned kittens.

  “Are there any biscuits?” Manu asked. Then he saw Holly and his eyes lit up. “Oh, he’s so cute! Can I hold him?”

  “She’s a girl,” said Jasmine, “and she’s called Holly. You can hold her when she’s finished feeding.”

  “It says we need to burp her when she’s finished,” said Tom. “Like a baby.”

  “I remember Mum doing that with Manu,” said Jasmine. “You hold them over your shoulder and rub their back. It gets out the trapped wind.” She turned to her brother. “I hope Holly’s not like you. You used to throw up after every single feed.”

  “Have you got a shoebox?” Tom asked. “It says a shoebox lined with a towel is the best bed. And she needs a heat pad.”

  Jasmine frowned. “I don’t think we’ve got one of those.”

  “Or you can use a hot water bottle. But that might be a bit big. She needs to be able to move away from it if she gets too hot.”

  “What about that mini hot water bottle you gave Dad last Christmas?” suggested Manu. “The one he puts in his coat pocket for a handwarmer?”

  Jasmine looked at her brother in amazement. “That might be the first useful thing you’ve ever said.”

  Manu looked wounded. “I say useful things all the time. You just don’t listen.”

  Jasmine handed Holly to Tom and rummaged in Dad’s coat pockets for the mini hot water bottle.

  “Actually, instead of a towel, we should use a blanket from the cats’ basket,” said Tom, still reading the website. “It’s so that Holly will get used to Toffee and Marmite’s scent.”

  “Manu!” shouted Ella from upstairs. “Why is the bathroom sink full of bones?”

  Manu went to the doorway. “I was washing them,” he shouted back.

  “Well, come and get them out.”

  “In a bit,” said Manu.

  “Now!” shouted Ella.

  Manu gave a heavy sigh and left the room.

  “Here it is,” said Jasmine, pulling the hot water bottle from one of Dad’s coat pockets. She put the kettle on and went to fetch a shoebox.

  When she returned, Tom whispered, “Look, she’s sleeping.”

  Jasmine looked. Holly was snuggled up in Tom’s lap, her eyes closed, looking perfectly contented.

  “She’s so gorgeous,” said Jasmine.

  Tom scratched the back of his hand. “I’ve got bites,” he said. “They’re really itchy.”

  Jasmine looked at the little red marks and pulled a face. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I think you’ve got fleas.”

  Tom looked horrified. “Fleas?”

  “They must be from Holly,” said Jasmine. “Never mind. We’ll comb them out.”

  Tom was frantically scratching his arms. “Oh, no, I’m itchy all over now. My mum will go crazy if I have fleas.”

  Jasmine fetched the flea comb from the scullery. She knelt beside Tom and ran it through Holly’s fur. Holly opened her eyes sleepily and closed them again.

  “Sorry, Holly,” said Jasmine, “but I’m going to have to comb every part of you. You just carry on sleeping.”

  “It did say on that website that you have to check feral cats for fleas,” said Tom, “but Holly looked so clean and silky that I didn’t think she’d have any.”

  “You can never tell,” said Jasmine. “Fleas are so small you hardly ever see them.”

  “What’s a feral cat anyway?” asked Tom. “Does it just mean a wild cat?”

  “I think wild cats are a whole different species,” said Jasmine, “and feral cats are just normal cats that don’t have homes.”

&n
bsp; She wiped the comb on a piece of kitchen roll. There were a few flecks of black on the white paper. Jasmine held the paper under the tap and dripped water on to it. The black specks turned dark red. “Yep,” she said. “Flea dirt. It’s actually dried blood, you see. Holly’s blood, poor thing.”

  She combed the underside of Holly’s tail and then inspected the comb. “And there’s a flea.”

  She crushed the flea in the paper. “You have to be really vicious with them,” she said. “They’re so tough, they can survive almost anything.”

  “My mum definitely won’t let me have her now,” said Tom, “once she sees I’ve got flea bites.”

  “Don’t let her see, then.”

  “She’ll notice. She notices everything.”

  “But we can’t let her go to another home,” said Jasmine. “You’ll have to convince her.”

  “I’ll really try,” he said. “I’ll tell her there’s nothing else I want for Christmas.”

  “That might work,” said Jasmine. “Holly won’t even cost anything. And if your mum won’t budge, I’ll persuade mine to let me keep her.”

  But when Mum came home, she wasn’t in a persuadable mood. She wouldn’t even let Jasmine and Tom set an alarm to give Holly a night feed.

  “She’s nearly two weeks’ old, by the look of her,” she said, “and she doesn’t need feeding in the middle of the night. You can give her a late feed tonight, and you can get up early, but you’re not setting your alarm for 2am.”

  “OK,” said Jasmine.

  They would just have to stay awake all night instead, she thought.

  Mum looked at her suspiciously. “And if I hear a sound out of you after I’ve switched off your light, Holly will be going to a rescue centre in the morning.”

  Jasmine stared at her mother in horror. “You wouldn’t do that!”

  “Try me,” said Mum. “I’m not having two exhausted children in the house tomorrow. If you want to look after her, you’ll need your sleep.”

  “OK,” said Jasmine again. But she had every intention of staying up all night. And Mum clearly didn’t trust her, because she insisted on leaving Jasmine’s bedroom door open after she had switched out the light, and then she went into her study next to Jasmine’s room and left that door open too.