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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Kelsey unzipped the pet carrier and peered in. “Oh goodness,” she cooed. “Hello, little snoobles. And hi, mama. How many babies do you have?” Leaving the new little family in the carrier, she counted the kittens. “I’ve got five, right?”
“That’s right,” Janice Appleton, a shelter foster, said. “Three boys, two girls. I think. I always have trouble being sure when they’re brand new.”
“Well, let’s make sure. Can I have a baby for a few minutes, mama?” she asked and scooped a tiny neonate kitten from the carrier. Mama cat, a beautiful long-haired grey tuxedo, stayed calm, but her eyes blazed wariness and warning.
Her name was Dolly, and she had been part of a feral colony on a farm in central Oklahoma. The local shelters, and a small army of independent fosters, ran massive, occasionally coordinated TNR campaigns all through Oklahoma, doing whatever they could to stem the tide of unwanted cats.
TNR campaigns—Trap, Neuter, and Release—were meant to allow cats who’d always been on their own to continue their lives in the way they knew but ensure they weren’t making hundreds more cats while they did it. Feline gestation was about sixty days long, and female cats could go into heat within about two weeks of birthing a litter. A feral intact female might have three or more litters in a year and two hundred kittens or more in its breeding life.
Dolly had been captured pregnant right before the big snowstorm, and Kelsey had been treating her. Most feral cats were terrified in captivity; the vets and techs had special gear they wore to protect themselves while they cared for aggressive animals. But Dolly seemed to love being indoors and with people. She was the sweetest, mellowest girl, and she would go up for adoption when these last babes were weaned.
Meanwhile, she wasn’t thrilled to have any of those babies taken from her for any amount of time.
“Hello, teeny!” This first kitten was a dilute tortie, which made it almost certainly one of the girls. But the calico mutation was possible, rare but possible, in males, too, so she verified. “Yep, a girl.”
Janice smiled like a proud mama herself. “I’m calling them the Christmas litter. That one’s Merry.”
“Oh, that’s adorable!” As Kelsey checked little Merry for physical soundness—right away, she could see she was abnormally small—she said, “Tell me about the birth. Last night, right?”
“Started in the afternoon, around three. Four babies came in about an hour or so, but little Merry there didn’t come until ten o’clock. We thought she was done. I think even Dolly thought she was done. But then, just as we were getting ready to turn in for the night, I went to do one more check, and she was laboring again. She’s small, right?”
“She is.” Kelsey carried Merry to the scale and set her in it. Sixty-three grams. That was really small. Too small, probably. “Did you get weights for everybody near birth?”
“I did.” Janice swiped on her phone. “Merry was sixty-nine grams.” She looked up and squinted at the readout on the scale. “Six grams lost.”
“It’s not great, but it’s not a crisis. She’s tiny, but she seems sound. She shouldn’t have to fight for a teat, but …” She put her gloved pinky to Merry’s little mouth but got no suckle reflex. This little slip of a girl might have some developmental delays. “I think we better supplement what she gets from her mama, until she figures out how to latch.”
“On it,” Janice said and made a note in her phone. She’d been in this game for a while and was a practiced tube-feeder.
Kelsey got a temp (normal), listened to her heart (a bit fast), her lungs (clear), and her belly (empty). “Yeah, you know what? Let’s get her a little nosh while you’re here. I think she hasn’t fed productively yet.”
There was very little leeway with a neonate kitten. They were so tiny, so fragile, so vulnerable to basically every bacterium and fungus in existence that it was a marvel the cat population was so out of control. Only the excellent mothering skills of cats could keep kittens going against such long odds.
It was a kind of paradox: on one hand was this beautiful, miraculous event, a feral cat giving birth alone, in a dumpster, or under the hood of a rotted-out car, or in a bush, then caring for such tiny, helpless babies, keeping them fed and safe—keeping herself fed and safe so she could keep them fed and safe. Kelsey was in awe of such cats. But on the other hand was thisepidemicof feral cats breeding kittens so often they were virtually never not pregnant or nursing until they died.
Such a beautiful thing, and so devastating as well.
But right now, she could focus on the beautiful part: these adorable kittens, this wonderful, sweet mama, and the care she and Janice could provide to do everything they could to keep them safe, healthy, and happy.
She checked on the other kittens: Holly, a solid grey girl; Rudolph, an orange tabby; Frosty, white with ginger markings; and Klaus, a grey tuxie like his mama. All were of normal weight, physically sound, with strong hearts, lungs, and digesting bellies. And completely freaking adorable.
Before she checked Dolly, Kelsey excused herself and went back for some formula, a syringe, and a feeding tube. Normally, she’d stick her head out and ask whoever was working back here to help her out, but it was toward the end of the day, during the holiday week, so staffing was minimal. All their pens were empty, too; tomorrow was New Year’s Eve and the clinic would be closed until Monday—four days—so there were no planned surgeries, and they had no acute-care patients, either.
The only being back here other than Kelsey was Mr. D. She’d brought him with her today because she felt guilty about how much time she’d been spending away from him this past week. He jumped up from the dog cot he called his own.
“Hey, doodle. You being a good boy?” Taking a moment to crouch and give her dog some love, she pulled the gloves off and patted her lap. He put his paws on her thigh and grinned at her.
She didn’t care what people thought about anthropomorphizing animals. That was a grin. She dug a treat from her pocket, and he dropped his butt to the floor at once. “Good boy, Mr. D.”
Then she washed her hands and went to the supply closet.
Normally, the formula was on the second shelf from the bottom, but the box was empty. Great. End of the year nonsense. Oh well, they weren’t out; there was an unopened carton on the top shelf.
She didn’t relish bringing down a case of pre-mixed formula from a shelf a foot over her head, but there was a stepladder, so she’d be—where was the ladder? Not in the closet.
Ducking back out to the work area, she glanced around and didn’t see it. Poop.
