(The following was originally written in April 2010 at a time when my Father was still able to live in his home albeit with lots of help. This story involves cats. Prior to making a final decision about their future, I attempted to engage rescue agencies to assist. Failing that, I made a decision I do not regret. No cats were harmed before or during the writing of this story.)
As I walked down the broken cement pathway towards the side door of my father’s cottage, one of the three adult feral cats he’d been feeding for months bolted from underneath the decaying wheelchair ramp. From underneath the ramp popped out two tiny kitten heads mewing for all they were worth. The big orange cat Dad was so fond of was, as suspected, a female – she had been pregnant and was now introducing her brood to “Dad’s Diner.”
Every morning at dawn, regardless of the weather, he’d put out breakfast for the cats. Along with canned food, he supplemented their diet with saucers of milk. Due to his physical limitations, the best Dad could do was line up the bowls on the railing near the door. This subsequently made a huge mess of dirty dishes, dried cat food bits everywhere, and spilled milk. My first order of business several times a week was to clean up the cat café. Big Orange, a good mother, was now showing her kittens where to find the good stuff.
I had tried to stop Dad from feeding the strays in the hope they would simply go away. What had started out as just leaving scraps from his meals for the cats had progressed to buying cat food. There were many days when the cats were his only company, his only contact with other living beings. I didn’t have the heart to demand he stop feeding stray cats. The pleasure he took from caring about something was so great it was heartbreaking to watch. Instead, I tried to manage the damage the cats were causing by cleaning up after them and reminding Dad constantly that strays can never be pets. He’d smile, humoring my efforts.
That the cats were flourishing was apparent. They looked very healthy in spite of never seeing a vet, being immunized, or neutered. They stayed longer and longer during the course of the day. They mewed at his door until he came out to feed them. Two allowed him to stroke their fur. One often moseyed into the house, twice getting trapped inside and causing mass destruction of my mother’s formerly clean and cozy home. And still I couldn’t stop him. We all deserve companionship in one form or another.
But five more cats – that was out of the question. I had to take decisive action. I looked under the ramp and called to the babies, “Here kitty, kitty, kitty … come on little babies, come on out…” Five tiny fur balls staggered to the opening. But as I reached out to capture one of the bits of breathing fluff, it quickly disappeared deep into the recesses of the rotting ramp.
“Dad, the orange cat’s babies are under the ramp,” I said to him as he stood in the open door watching the action. His face lights up but his words were, “Oh no, not more cats.”
I responded in dark tones, “Yes, Dad, she must have brought them over to get the milk you leave out.”
His retort was, “Oh now that is a smart cat, ain’t she!” He chuckled, barely able to hold back a full belly laugh.
I knew that if I didn’t do something soon about these kittens, the yard would be swarming with lively frolicking baby cats and much more cat waste as well. This was a man who couldn’t bathe himself, never mind care for even a single animal. The cat zoo had to be closed.
On the drive home, I pondered once again, “Why me, why me, why me?” Wasn’t it enough that I took care of Dad? Now to have to deal with the fate of five adorable kittens was almost too much to bear. I resolved that the ramp would be taken down immediately, the kittens collected and taken to animal control and that was that – until I tried to sleep that night.
The idea of taking very young kittens from their mother was a thought almost too heinous to entertain in the dark of night. I could hear their innocent cries calling out for her, “Mommy, where are you!” I tossed and turned with nightmares filled with human-sized cats.
In the morning, I remained conflicted. I knew the right thing to do was have animal control remove the cats. So I tried contacting several agencies. Most were filled to capacity and not taking in more animals, while others said I’d have to collect the cats and during very specific hours drop them off to be euthanized. No agency was willing to go to the house and capture them.
And then I pictured my father standing by the door as the screaming cats were crated. It would be so harsh. He would try to stop them. Maybe he’d fall and get hurt. Why couldn’t I just leave well enough alone and let things play out? Yet, the reality of unneutered feral cats multiplying was a reality I had to deal with. What to do?
First things first, the rotting ramp had to be removed. But who could I conscript for the bull work? Enter one able-bodied husband.
In spite of its derelict appearance, the ramp didn’t give up without a fight. Soon my husband’s brow dripped sweat as he wrestled with oak board and long screws. It seemed to refuse being dismantled. He needed a crew to help him.
“I’m calling your son to bring me my chain saw and pry bar,” he said through gritted teeth.
Once my son arrived with the tools and put his shoulder to the task, the ramp finally gave way. My job was to position myself at the end of the ramp that had been jacked up so the kittens would have an escape route. But they were so young and traumatized by the noise they weren’t coming out.
My husband instructed me to get a broom and sweep them out. I carefully moved the broom under the ramp, pulling out a pile of dead oak leaves and two kitties. My husband picked them up tenderly and placed them in the waiting box. But where were the other three? We deduced that when we had arrived, we had caught the mother cat bringing her kittens over and she had at that point only moved two of five. I suspected she was close by.
The men finished the demolition, and I swept and cleaned the area from years of neglect.
“What are you going to do with these two, Ma?” my son asked, pointing at the box.
I opened the lid where the siblings had nearly fused their miniscule bodies together so tightly packed in one corner.
“I can’t just drop them off at animal control. That isn’t allowed until next Tuesday between 11 and 2,” I replied.
This was only Saturday morning. I looked over the fence at the neighbor’s backyard and there was Big Orange, poking her head out from under the shed where she’d been living with the kittens. I also noticed three other little ones behind her.
“I think I’ll just return them to the mother,” I said.
We nodded in agreement. It was the best of a bad situation. At least the cats could no longer hide under the ramp, possibly making life in Dad’s yard less attractive. I went into the neighboring yard and gingerly placed the babies as far under the shed as possible. I felt like crying. The sight of a large orange tail told me not to worry; Big Orange was there waiting for her babies.
My father, who had been looking out the kitchen window the entire time, gave me a wide toothless smile when I looked up at him. I went inside to say goodbye and tell him I’d be back tomorrow to pick him up for Sunday dinner. He patted me on the back saying, “You know, you know, you are a good person to give them cats back to the mother. You know that, don’t ya?” Yeah Dad, I know.
(Epilogue: Shortly after this episode, the big orange cat and her kittens disappeared. I suspect she got spooked and took them to another yard. Then about a year later, we spotted a cat across the street from Dad’s house. It was one of the kittens now grown. An elderly neighbor lady was putting food out for it on her porch and calling “here, pretty kitty.” By then, Dad had fallen completely into the pit that is dementia. Remembering how he had so lovingly tried to care for a growing pride of cats, I knew he would be so happy that one of ‘his’ was thriving. “Did you know you were a good person, Dad?”)
By Marilou Newell
