Five Little Kittens with Grit (a true story)

By Marsha Arzberger

Five little kittens – what will they do?

Mama’s been gone for a day or two. 

Stay in the straw, be afraid, slowly fade?

Or gather their grit… and find someone to aid. 

I live on a ranch and farm in Arizona. One crisp early morning, I stepped out the back door, looking forward to my morning walk. Each morning, I soaked up the peace and quiet of the country and marveled at my view of the mountains.

My one-mile walk followed the quarter-mile-long, oval driveway where tractors and horse trailers had once parked. Four rounds of the packed dirt gave me a full mile and a space of time to contemplate. We had retired a few years ago, so the corral and horse pasture I walked past were both empty. On the other side was a farm field, now fallow and growing native grasses. I enjoy this walk every day, especially after working in the city all winter. Breathing in the crisp, clean air renews my energy.

When I passed the old abandoned outhouse, my ears picked up an odd sound. On the second round, I glanced over at the weather-beaten building. Years ago, I’d sawed a hole at the bottom of the door when my cat wanted to have her kittens in there.

Surprise! A very, very small kitten put his head out of the hole and mewed at me. Its little mewing voice was so high-pitched and thin I could barely hear it. 

It must be a feral cat that’s come in and had her kittens there, I thought. Mentally, I planned to put some cat food inside the saddle shed. They probably won’t stay, but if they do, I’ll have to take the mother to the vet for spaying later. That is, if I could catch her. 

I kept walking. I was on my third round now and was thoroughly enjoying the lovely morning. I glanced again at the outhouse as I passed.

Oh, dear! A kitten came stumbling out of the hole at the bottom of the door and mewed urgently. It staggered toward me, somehow arrowing straight to me in spite of the fact that she had one eye closed and the other half open. Something wasn’t right! This kitten was too small, and feral kittens don’t usually approach humans. I kept walking, looking back to make sure it went back inside. There was a straw bed inside—a warm, safe place for kittens. And it’s not wise to touch feral kittens, or the mother will move them away.

The mother’s probably out hunting. She’ll be back soon, I thought. 

I went about my normal day, but that brave little kitten stayed on my mind. I checked on them when it became dark and heard desperate mewing inside the small building. Why hadn’t the mother come back?

I couldn’t sleep. A few hours later, I took my flashlight and went back outside. The mother had to be back by now. But she wasn’t! The same kitten who’d come out and mewed at me heard my footsteps and came out of the little hole. It was a spunky little thing, mewing loudly and stumbling toward me. And it was frantic. The anxious “mew . . . mew . . . mew” tugged at my heart. Four more kittens came out of the hole. It was breaking daylight now, and close to twenty-four hours since I’d first seen them, and the mother hadn’t returned. She wouldn’t have left her kittens that long. I knew something had happened to her. The kittens were desperately hungry, and they were orphans. 

What to do?! I gathered them up. Their eyes were just opening, so I judged them at two to two and a half weeks old. The brave little leader was a tortoiseshell calico (a “tortie”) and a female. Two other females were gray tabbies, another female was black, and the one with the biggest head, a male, was black and white. They were all tiny, and they desperately needed milk.

On a ranch or farm, you learn to “make do,” or fix things, or come up with a solution using whatever you can find. A lightbulb “pinged” in my head, and I had an idea. I searched through the closet in my daughter’s room, digging through her old box of dolls.

I found a doll bottle! And it had a rubber nipple on it. I used a darning needle to poke a hole in the rubber nipple, and called my daughter, who was married and lived in another state. She’d worked for a veterinarian, and she told me to use watered condensed (canned) milk. 

The kittens clawed at me with tiny, needle-sharp claws and climbed up my sweatshirt when I sat on the floor. I held one kitten close to my chest and fed it for a few minutes, then I put that one down and fed another. They drank greedily and fought to get closer to the bottle. I sighed. It looked like I would be driving into town to buy two kitten bottles. 

The skinny little kittens’ eyes finished opening that day. There were five of them—four females and one male. They each weighed four ounces, except for the male, who was the largest in size, but weighed one ounce less. He had diarrhea, which is dangerous in all small animals. Back to the phone I went, to consult with my daughter.

“Put sugar in the watered condensed milk,” she said. “And boil it first, then let it cool.”

For ten days, I fed the babies every two and a half hours, day and night. I pulled on an old purple sweatshirt, and the tiny kittens crawled up my chest and devoured the milk from two kitten bottles until their little bellies were bulging. My sleep was badly interrupted, but I didn’t care. It was a deeply comforting feeling to know I’d saved their lives.

I had to be mother cat for them, clean them with a wet cloth and a soft brush, and teach them to use the litter box. But they learned fast! And they grew! Soon they weighed six ounces. That was a victory! They were clean and healthy, and they ran around our utility room and played. 

The little leader who’d run toward me to ask for help was a tortie—her coat was brindled, black with shades of orange and specks of white. The colors were scattered, especially on her face. I called her “Pieface” because she looked like a pie made of different colors of paint had been thrown on her face. But she was the grittiest of the bunch.

The next time I weighed them, they weighed ten ounces and were about four and a half weeks old. Their bright eyes were open wide, and they were full of energy and health, bouncing around happily and chasing insects and butterflies. When they were six weeks old, I needed to go back to the city to work, and they still needed care. I took them to a local cat shelter.

I came back home two weeks later and went to visit them, but I didn’t expect they would remember me. But they heard my voice and came running. I sat on the floor and they climbed up my chest, holding on to my sweater with little claws, just like they used to do when I bottle-fed them. Pieface was especially glad to see me. She mewed her welcome and scrambled up close to rub her head against my face. I was astonished that they remembered me. I confess, my eyes were wet—especially when I had to set Pieface down and leave.

I looked up Pieface’s calico color and found that many places in the world believe tortoiseshell cats are good luck, especially in Celtic cultures. I believe that. The contentment and happiness I gained from this experience were a type of good luck.

All five of those tough little kittens found homes and families to love them. The black and white male with the big head was adopted by a little boy who wouldn’t let loose of his kitten, not even to let his dad carry it to the car. 

These five orphan kittens were a special experience for me. They wouldn’t have survived if I hadn’t fed and taken care of them. I will always remember Pieface, the kitten who had grit enough to chase me down and ask for help. She had a mountain of courage packed in a four-ounce body. 

When I’m faced with something that looks difficult, I remember that little kitten …  and I square my shoulders and go on.