One very warm summer day, I happened to look out the window and saw that someone had left a large box in the middle of the street. The box was wrapped in a cheap, plastic table cloth and it struck me as very odd that a couple of little birds kept landing on top of the box and were pecking at it in a determined, almost frantic manner.
I left my desk, feeling like I just had to open that box. But I was apprehensive, even felt a little scared for some reason. I asked Frank, one of the factory workers, to please come with me. He did, bringing a box cutter.
The birds were still hopping on and around the box as we approached.
"Open it quick, Frank. I have a bad feeling."
Frank looked at me gravely - he felt it, too. Protectively, he said: "Lynn, please stand away while I do this."
Which made me more nervous, still: "Ok, okay....Please hurry up, Frank."
As soon as Frank slit the top of the box, like a lightning flash out jumped a terrified mama cat: Wild-eyed, small and skinny, a ginger-tabby. She high-tailed it down an alleyway, and she never looked back. I think about that poor mama-bubby to this day....
...and, inside the box were 6 kittens - no more than 3 or 4 days old, tops. Their eyes weren't yet open and they barely had fur but you could see they were three ginger tabbies and three calicos: 3 boys and 3 girls. They looked to be dead. Crying in horror, I grabbed the box and quickly brought it inside. Without even thinking, I started dribbling water into their mouths, dabbing their noses and their feet with cool water. Slowly, all 6 began to revive and mew weakly.
Still crying, I informed my bosses that I needed the rest of the day off. They were none too pleased - downright grumpy about it all - but then, they were assholes and I hated their fucking guts anyhow. And they knew it, too.
Let's see....Saving kittens today or slaving for you shit-heads? Hmmmm...I'm gonna say NO CONTEST, you fucking yahoos.
They stood aside, grudgingly silent, as I gathered my box of wormy-looking kittens and left the office. Frank held the doors for me as I went. Frank was a man of God, and this day was no exception. I love you, Frank, wherever you are today.
I put the box-o-kitties in the passenger seat of my car and drove straight to my vet's office, one hand in the box, still dribbling water into their waiting mouths.
My vet was moved by my predicament, but he gently told me that I shouldn't get my hopes up or expect miracles: It was very unlikely that these bubbies would survive. They were way too tiny to be orphaned, not to mention severely dehydrated. Regardless, he gave me some formula and feeding instructions ("Every 2 to 3 hours, (!!) round-the-clock, and make sure to rub their bellies and genitals afterward with a warm cloth so that they evacuate waste, otherwise they will become blocked and TOXIC ...").
OOfah. Only one way I could take this on: I enlisted the help of my ex-husband's mom, an incredibly selfless fellow animal lover. She jumped right on board, like the animal advocate rock-star that she was and still is.
All 6 kittens quickly began to flourish and thrive. Literally within the first 24 hours, they were all yowling for food every second of the day, never mind "every 3 hours"... Me and Mom adjusted our schedules accordingly, because this was a big production, let me tell you.
For some reason, we dubbed the group of orphans: "THE BAH-BEES" - pronouncing 'BAH' like the sound of a bleating lamb, I think because they sounded like a chorus of tiny lambs constantly Baaaaaaah-ing for food, cuddling and attention. Very quickly those Bah-Bees were all over the damn place - they opened their eyes within 2 days of their arrival and once THAT happened, fuggedaboudit.
We procured a big cage for the Bah-Bees and set it up in Mom's living room. Mom's father-in-law (Pop) lived there, too. He was an extraordinary gentleman: Cultured, kindly and also a great lover of animals. Unfortunately, he was also afflicted with the progression of Alzheimer's.
In the evenings, Pop was still able to enjoy his evening whiskey, listening to his beloved classical music and whatnot. Once the Bah-Bees were on the scene, tho', things got a little more interesting for Pop. Whenever someone entered the room, they'd all start up with their thin, insistent Baaaaaaah-ing - demanding to be let out of their big Bah-Bee Cage.
And every single time, Pop would irately rap his whiskey tumbler on the end table and bark: "Goddamit now. This is INSANITY. Would somebody do something about these damn BIRDS ALREADY so that I can HEAR MYSELF THINK???"
* * * * * *
All six Bah-Bees grew into big, strapping, beautiful cats: Monster ("Muncie"), Tigger, Jake, Maggie, Angel and my absolute favorite, Little Debbie. She was the tiniest, so docile and remained baby-like always.
We kept 4 of them. And boy, let me tell you, it was hard letting the other 2 go. But they went to great homes, of course.
I still think about and feel such anxiety for that poor mama cat, even tho' she did escape one horrifically awful fate, What the fuck is wrong with people who would do such a thing? Same old question. Anyhow, I still wish I could have done more for her. Of course, she's long gone now - they all are.
I remain grateful that I looked out that window when I did. And as I never tire of saying when this story comes up:
How'd I know to open that package?
Oh, a little birdie tole' me.
Happy Friday and Have a Great Weekend~!
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