Her lineage is unknown, but her intelligence, at least when it comes to escaping all efforts at being trapped, is legendary among several of us who live on First Street who have been the recipients of her gifts of kittens. Mama, as she is known, has left us with four kittens at various time over the past two years.  She gives birth under my neighbor’s deck and then when it’s time to wean her babies, she trots them over to our cat door and deposits them, on the apex of kitten adorableness, in our family room.  The result is that we have eight cats.  We had four that we acknowledged as ours.  The last four are interlopers who have become a special variety of cat that isn’t too feral to ask for cheese, but is just undomesticated enough to run away if there isn’t food involved.  We are stymied when it comes to knowing what to do with those last four cats.

And so it was that, two months ago, this feral princess gave birth in my son’s closet.  Five all-black kittens, which she guarded with the ferocity of motherhood and the guile of a cat.   She moved them several time, each time within the house.  The last time was to a spot under a window in the family room, easily visible to the human occupants.  We moved them then to our powder room where we left the door open but added a fence to keep them safe.  Mama did not like our choice, urging her offspring to join her with that feline motherhood sibilant sound, a combination of tiny bells and purrs.

She would come to the barrier, calling to her babies to follow her, which was impossible for them.  She refused to join them inside, most probably because of her fear of entrapment. So, it became our job to allow the babies to follow mom to her choice of nursery on the red rug in front of the door in the living room.  We were kept busy at this task for six weeks.

We began to notice that one of the litter was smaller than the others. We just assumed it was the runt and figured that he or she would catch up to his or her littermates at time went by.  That didn’t happen.  Then the little kitten didn’t even respond to his or her mother’s calls. He was lethargic.  Skin and bones and no affect.  He wouldn’t even lift his head when Mama cat called. What was wrong?

Google offered a dire description of something called Fading Kitten syndrome.  The only suggestion was to supplement the sick baby’s diet with formula.   We bought kitten milk dry formula and tiny little bottles with tiny little nipples to feed the tiny one.  The kitten refused any ministrations with emphatic, nerve wreaking cries.

I called the vet late on a Wednesday to make an appointment for the next day.  After listening to my description of the kitten, the doctor told me to come right over. Dr. Linda Hunter stayed after hours to examine this little guy … a boy … who was diagnosed with severe dehydration and anemia, the latter caused by fleas inherited from his mother.  Dr. Hunter and the staff rehydrated him, washed away the fleas with Dawn and fed the kitten before giving him back to me with handwritten instructions for his care, along with some premade formula, tiny syringes and prayers that he would survive.  His chances of survival? About 5%.

The kitten had to be kept warm in order to eat.  So, for three days, I fed this sweet little fellow drop by drop.   On the first day he took maybe two tablespoons, on the second, about a quarter of a cup.  I held him on my chest and stroked his fur for hours, whispered maternal love songs to him and laid him down with a hot water bottle to sleep.  On the third day he took about a half a cup and ate some cat food.

In the meantime, we washed all of his siblings with Dawn, figuring if he was infested, so were they.  And yes, we did was everything else, including their cat bed.

Today he scarfed down a good amount of cat food, drank water and began to play with his siblings.

Tomorrow all are scheduled to be taken to Friends Forever.  I am torn.  I have too many cats now, but this little sweetheart has gotten to me.  After all, he is still so small and relatively fragile.  Is it time for him to leave?  Does he need more time to gather weight and strength?  What argument can I use to either keep him or take him to the rescue?

Meanwhile we have brought the trap up from the cellar in hopes of outfoxing our maternal lady cat tonight so that Dr. Hunter can minister to Mama to prevent more additions to our cat population.

Ask me next week what transpired – fun! Sure…