by Lea Wait
“Plus plain water,” I noted. “And that’s a litter pan?” I pointed at a low baking pan filled with litter. The area around it was also liberally strewn with litter.
“I wonder if they need anything solid?” Gram said. “I’ve never taken care of kittens so small.”
The little white kitten with black patches on her face and butt was fast asleep, curled next to her mirror image: a black kitten with large patches of white, and the third, a black kitten with only a few white hairs. That one looked up at me, but didn’t purr or meow. She squeaked.
“Funny noise,” I said. I reached down and picked her up. She weighed a little over a pound and had big yellow eyes.
“What would be best for these babies?” Gram asked. “We can’t leave them here. We don’t know how long Dave’s going to be in the hospital, and they need watching. A dog or fox or owl could get in here and they wouldn’t have a chance. And I suspect they’ll need regular feeding.” She refilled the water dish from the garden hose Dave had looped neatly and hung on the wall. “We can’t be running over here every four or five hours.”
“Would Juno take care of them?” I asked. I’d heard of older cats “adopting” kittens.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Gram drily. “Although a kitten would wake up my old lady.” She stood. “Plus, they’ve lived out in the world. My guess is they all have fleas. I don’t want Juno to get them, too. Or my house.”
I held the black kitten away from my chest, where she’d been trying to snuggle.
“All right,” said Gram. “We could probably each manage one. They’re little enough so they could stay in a large box with blankets and food and a litter tray. I’d put mine in a room where Juno can’t go right now. I’ll take the little white one, and you have the black one. Ruth might take the third one.”
“Me? Take a kitten?” I asked. “I don’t have time for a kitten!” I looked at the little bundle of fluff who was kneading my chest. “She’s so tiny.”
“Cats are pretty independent,” said Gram. “And they’re Dave’s cats. It may only be a few days before he’ll be out and about and ready to take them back. You have one of those smartphones. Check to see what these babies need. This morning I saw empty cartons in Dave’s back hall. Call Ruth, too, to see if she’d like a kitten.”
Gram strode resolutely toward Dave’s back door.
Reluctantly I put down the kitten I’d been holding and pulled out my phone.
I’d just finished looking at a site about care of orphaned kittens when my phone rang. I answered it without thinking. “Dave? They’re fine. Don’t worry about them.”
“I’m not Dave,” said Patrick.
“Sorry! I was expecting a call,” I said.
“Clearly,” said Patrick.
“And I’m in the middle of a situation,” I continued, hoping to change the subject. “A kitten situation.”
“Kittens?” asked Patrick. “You have kittens?”
“I seem to,” I said. “Or, my friend Dave Percy does. He was caring for three orphaned kittens in his barn. He asked Gram and me to take care of them while he’s in the hospital. When you called I was looking up what to do with them.”
“How old are they?” asked Patrick.
“Old enough to drink and use a low litter pan,” I said. “I think Dave said six weeks old.
The Web site I looked at said abandoned kittens should be checked by a vet.”
“Sounds like the right thing,” Patrick agreed. “Is there a vet in town?”
“Gram will know. She has a cat,” I said.
“Kittens are wonderful,” said Patrick. “Are you going to take them all?”
“Gram’s thinking we should find separate homes for them. They’ll need a lot of attention.”
“So you’ll take one.”
“And Gram will take one.”
“And the third kitten?”
“I haven’t called anyone yet. I’m hoping Ruth Hopkins will take it.”
“I’ll volunteer,” said Patrick.
“You will? To take a kitten?” I asked.
“And I’ll pay for all of them to be checked out by a vet. He or she’ll make sure they’re healthy, and check for fleas and worms and such before they move inside anyone’s house.”
“You really want a kitten?”
“I’d love one. I’ve always liked cats. And I could use company.”
“When Dave gets out of the hospital he may want them all back,” I warned Patrick.
“Temporary company, then,” said Patrick.
Gram came back, carrying a box for the powdered milk and the Frisbee feeders and a smaller box for the kittens. “Gram, this is Patrick. He said he’d pay for a vet visit for all the kittens, and he’ll take one.”
“Tell him we accept his offer,” said Gram. “Gratefully.”
“Did you hear that?” I asked. “Thank you! I’ll see you later, with your kitten.”
“Ah . . . and could you pick up any supplies the vet says I’ll need?” asked Patrick. “Litter pan, special food, toys, whatever.”
“I’ll need those things, too,” I said. “Kitten caravan on the move.”
Chapter 27
“When this you see
Remember me
And bare me in your mind
Let all the world say
What they will
Speak of me as you find.”
—Charity Trimble, born in the year 1789, stitched this verse on her sampler when she was eighteen. Charity was one of nine children. She and her family had emigrated from Virginia to Pennsylvania, and then to Ohio. In 1811 Charity married. She and her husband had seven children, two of whom died as infants, and lived in Ross County, Ohio, the rest of their lives.
“Your friend Patrick is very kind,” said Gram.
We put Dave’s kitten supplies in a large carton in the back of Gram’s car and then put all the kittens in a liquor carton.
“They’re big enough to be scared by the car, or to jump around and scare me,” said Gram. “So close the top loosely. We don’t have far to go.” Gram drove, and I put the carton of crying kittens on my lap.
I filled Gram in on Jesse on the way to the vet’s office.
“I agree with Dave. We have to save that nesting ground,” she said as she pulled into the parking lot of an animal hospital just outside downtown. “I’ve already talked to Anna and Ruth today. Jesse may be gone, but Dave’s right. We can’t let that island be sold to anyone who’s going to build. The Audubon Society will help, too.”
“But first we have to take care of the kittens,” I put in.
The vet checked over each of our small charges, made sure they weren’t dehydrated, and advised us what to feed them. “No cow’s milk. Kitten formula, mixed with spring water. No chemicals. Mix in a little canned kitten food,” she suggested. “These babies are pretty healthy. Your friend did a good job with them. Shall I have my assistant give them baths to make sure they don’t take their fleas home with them?”
Gram and I gratefully agreed. The whole procedure didn’t take long.
We were now the foster parents of three weary kittens.
“I’m going to keep Snowy in Tom’s and my bedroom,” Gram decided. “I’ll keep the door closed until I know how Juno’s going to react. She won’t be happy about being closed out, but she’ll cope.”
The vet had said to keep each kitten in one room equipped with a litter pan and food and water until they were used to their new quarters. “Snowy?” I said. “You’ve already named one? You know they’re Dave’s kittens, right?”
“Every living thing should have a name,” she said. “Where will you keep yours?”
“In the living room, I guess,” I said. “The vet said we needed to keep them company, and I’m downstairs more than up. The kitchen would be good, but I can’t close it off.”
“And what’s your kitten’s name?” she asked.
The vet’s name had been Beatrix. “Beatrix is a queen, righ
t?” I asked.
“Netherlands,” agreed Gram.
“Juno’s the queen of your household,” I said. “Beatrix will be the queen of mine. At least for as long as Dave needs me to keep her.” I peeked into the carton. “I may call her Trixi, though. She’s pretty little to be a queen. She’s still a princess.”
Gram patted my knee.
We picked up supplies for the kittens and Gram dropped Beatrix and me and the Unnamed One at my house. Trixi promptly inspected one section of the living-room floor and then fell asleep in the kitten bed I hadn’t been able to resist buying.
Then the Unnamed One and I headed for Patrick’s house.
Chapter 28
“O May I Always Ready Stand
With my Lamp Burning in My Hand
May In Sight of Heaven Rejoice
When Err I Hear the Bridegroom’s Voice.”
—Stitched in 1757 Boston by Prudence Clark above a picture of Adam and Eve and several animals standing below an apple tree.
Patrick peeked into the carton holding his kitten. “She’s beautiful! It is a she, right?”
“A she,” I confirmed. “Gram took her brother. Let me get you her supplies.”
By the time I got back with the box of food and litter, the Unnamed One was purring on Patrick’s chest. It was clearly a love match.
“You know this may be temporary? Dave may only be in the hospital a few days.”
“I know,” said Patrick, burying his nose in the kitten’s fur. “What’s her name?”
“That’s up to you,” I said. He was stroking her gently, and she was clearly responding. She didn’t care that his hands were red and swollen. Maybe Patrick did need a kitten.
“Black cats with white patches on their chests are called tuxedo cats,” he said. He put his hand on her head and said solemnly, “I christen you Bette.”
“Bette?”
“After Bette Midler. She used to wear tuxedos in her act.”
“I added a book on kitten care to your supplies. I got one for me, too. The vet suggested Bette should be kept in one room until she gets used to the space.”
“I think she’ll like my studio,” he said. “She can look out through the glass walls, even though she’s so little. And when it gets cooler, the floor will be heated.”
When it got cooler? I had a feeling Dave would have trouble retrieving this kitten.
“What are the other two kittens like?”
“Mine’s almost all black. Just a couple of white hairs on her chest. Gram’s is white, with a little black.”
“I’m glad you chose Bette for me. She’s perfect.” The object of his affection sat comfortably in his lap. “How’s Dave? He’s the biology teacher who does needlepoint with you, right?”
“Right,” I confirmed. “Good guy. Ex-navy.” I hesitated to tell Patrick, but better he heard it from me than someone else. “He had surgery yesterday afternoon. He’ll be all right, but healing takes time.”
“An accident?”
Patrick was probably the only one in town who hadn’t already heard. “What your uncle Gerry heard was right. Dave was shot with an arrow while we were out on King’s Island,” I said.
Patrick frowned. “King’s Island. Isn’t that the place Uncle Gerry wants to buy from some weird hermit guy?”
“The weird hermit guy’s name was Jesse Lockhart. He and Dave were close friends.”
“And you were with him? Thank goodness you weren’t hurt.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “And Dave will recover. But Jesse’s dead.”
“Did Dave shoot him?” Patrick looked at me closely. He knew I carried. “Did you?”
“Neither of us. He was fine when Dave and I left the island yesterday. This morning Pete Lambert and one of the marine patrol guys and I went out to King’s Island to talk to him. We found his body.”
“This morning?” said Patrick. “All that’s happened since we had dinner Tuesday night?”
Patrick sat back. “Simon—the guy who’s staying with Mom now—he’s this Jesse’s cousin, right?”
“I think so.”
“Did Jesse have any other family?”
“Not that I know of.”
“So Simon’s Jesse’s next of kin,” said Patrick. “Have the police told him about his cousin?”
“I don’t even know whether they know Simon’s in town,” I said.
“They should. Yesterday Simon went to the town hall to get copies of the deed to King’s Island and the police department to see if they had any records about Jesse.” Patrick hesitated. “Records of any arrests, or crazy behavior, you know.”
“No. I don’t.”
“Uncle Gerry went with him. So did Jed Fitch. I think it was Jed’s idea. You know Jed, right? The Realtor.”
“I know Jed. What was his idea?”
“Your friend Jesse lived by himself on a remote island, in an unsafe habitation.” Patrick hesitated. “They were looking for evidence he was incompetent.”
“Incompetent!”
“So Simon could be named his guardian and make decisions about his cousin’s life. And the future of the island.”
I paced back and forth in front of the window.
Bette watched me, moving her head back and forth as if trying to figure out what I was doing.
I turned to Patrick. “Jesse wasn’t crazy or incompetent. He’d decided to live his life a little differently from the way other people did. There’s no law against that.”
“But he shot Dave Percy.”
“By mistake. He was worried about your uncle trying to buy the island, and he was confused about who was in our boat.”
“You could have been shot, too.”
“But I wasn’t. And Jesse was really upset when he realized what he’d done.” I hesitated. “We never really got a chance to talk with him.”
“What did you want to talk to him about?”
“We wanted to warn him that your uncle Gerry was bringing Simon to town to try to convince him to sell King’s Island.”
“But there shouldn’t be a problem with Simon’s selling it now, right?”
“Jesse would have fought to keep it from being sold because of the birds. Now other people want to take on his cause.”
Patrick looked confused. “Birds? What birds?”
“Jesse ensured King’s Island was a refuge—a safe nesting place—for great cormorants. They’re a threatened species.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“The Audubon folks do. If there’s anything they can do to protect the cormorants, they will.” I hoped they would, anyway. Katie and Anna were working on that. Gram had gotten involved. And Dave said he’d do anything to protect the island.
“Cormorants. They’re the big black birds who stand with their wings spread?”
“Right.”
“I’ve tried to paint them. They’re almost surrealistic. Like out of the past. They’re endangered?”
“Not the double-crested cormorants, but the great cormorants. Not endangered. Threatened. That’s the step before ‘endangered.’ People haven’t treated them well. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries people used cormorant feathers to make capes and decorate hats, like they did with puffin feathers. Very different attitude from medieval times when some people believed cormorants were symbols of Christ because when their wings were out they looked like crosses.”
“You know a lot about them.” He sat quietly, watching me pace and gesture.
“Jesse and Dave told me some things. I googled the rest.”
“And this Jesse—he was protecting them?”
“King’s Island’s an official seabird nesting site. No one’s supposed to be there between June first and August thirty-first. He posted signs and kept people away. The birds must have been used to him.”
“So if Uncle Gerry buys the island and puts up a house and a dock and a heliport the cormorants will leave.”
“Right.”
“Does he know about t
he birds?”
“I don’t know. I’ll bet Jed Fitch didn’t tell him. Even Simon may not know. Jesse said he hadn’t seen his cousin in years.”
Would Patrick talk to his Uncle Gerry about the island? Would he warn his uncle that even though Jesse was dead, other people wanted to keep King’s Island for the birds?
Bette was purring so loud I could hear her across the room. Patrick was gently petting her, and she’d curled up in his lap.
“I should go and check on Trixi,” I said, heading for the door.
“Trixi?”
“Bette’s sister,” I explained over my shoulder. “My kitten.”
Chapter 29
“This life is like a morning Flower
Cut Down & Withered in an hour.”
—Thirteen-year-old Hannah Smith Merseilles of Bridgeton, New Jersey, stitched this verse in French knot, eyelet, stem, satin, tent and cross-stich in 1812. She included three alphabets, a strawberry border, and two baskets of flowers.
Trixi was fine. If you don’t count the times she missed the low “litter tray” I’d put in the corner (at least she’d come close) and the bag of unfinished needlepoint projects and yarns she’d pulled out of my stitching bag.
Luckily, she was still a baby. She’d stopped pulling the wool out after one skein and was now sound asleep on top of it, ignoring her cozy cat bed.
No purrs for me.
I refilled her food-and-kitten-milk dish.
Sharing my home with another living creature felt good.
Dusk was falling. I was looking forward to a quiet evening.
I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Instead, I’d made two visits to the hospital, helped find Jesse’s body on an island, and rescued three kittens.
Gram would have reminded me I was twenty-seven and should have lots of energy.
But right now I felt too tired to cook. I glanced at the bottle of Soave chilling in the refrigerator. If I had one sip of wine I’d fall asleep on my feet.
