I dreamed it again last night.
The plaintive cries of a hungry, lost kitten.
Even when I stirred awake, I still heard the echoes in my head. Karma roused from against my body and mewed at me, upset that I'd disturbed her beauty sleep. This is Karma my cat, not the what-goes-around-comes-around destiny. Although, whenever I think about why I even have Karma curled up next to me in the first place, I want to cry myself.
It's because I kept hearing her hungry yowling ten years ago.
I'm constantly reminding Karma she was supposed to be a dog, but she isn't impressed. Anyway, whenever I've tried to sleep again these past several nights, I heard that kitten crying and although I have nothing to feel guilty about, I still wake up worried if I've done the right thing.
The other evening, just before the light faded, my writing partner, Paul, and I were outside trying to tame the never-ending hodgepodge of bushes that surround the house. We heard it then -- the penetrating, loud mews of a hungry kitten. I dropped the large brown yard bag and followed the cries, and there she was.
She wasn't more than two weeks old, her eyes were barely open, and so tiny she could fit in the palm of my hand and there'd still be room. She was right out in the open, stranded on the side of a newly-poured cement driveway, so I knew her mother, a grey cat that's hung out in our garage for years, had either abandoned her, or was frightened off by the roars of construction and fled, leaving her child behind.
Cats hanging out in the yard have been a tradition since the days of my yiayia. There were always cats that lived in the garage during winter and, during the warm, sunny months, they took to the evergreens to sit in the shade. Yiayia would sit outside in her favorite chair, and the cats -- and the occasional squirrel from the multi-generational family that resided in the oak tree -- would come and sit with her. She always had treats and they knew it. The gati ("cat" in Greek), no matter which one was there, would climb up onto her lap and receive her snack.
They had a mutually beneficial relationship. The cats kept the rodents at bay -- especially the bunnies that could go through the garden like locusts -- and Yiayia would make sure they had food and a place to stay. Apparently, that information has been passed down throughout the feral cat community, because my late mother had, and now I myself have, these lovely resident felines watching out for the property. Every so often, I'll find a half-eaten mouse on the patio -- obviously my rent payment.
Anyway, this particular dusk, my housemate arrived and, as he has done in the past carefully, contorted his body to avoid stepping in wet cement and scoop up the kitten from a small flowerbed. He's quite good at such rescues. In fact, he'd already done it for Karma when she wandered into the next-door neighbor's Sukkah, a temporary shelter covered in natural materials, built near the house and used especially for meals during the Jewish festival of Succoth. Since neither of us is Jewish, we help during holidays and the Sabbath with electricity needs, gas stoves, heaters, and, in this case, rescuing the occasional kitten, since during the Succoth, no food can be given out to animals not their own, as it would be considered "work."
I ran inside, got a towel and a box, and within minutes the baby was snuggling into the warmth of the towel and fast asleep. Then we faced our dilemma. Did we bring her inside, where our behemoth cats, Grimalkin, Mystery, and the aforementioned Karma already had their own sibling rivalries? Grimalkin is huge, 20 pounds of solid muscle, and I was afraid he'd try to sit on the kitten to keep her warm and squish her. I mean, when he sits on you, you are keenly aware of his presence. A five-ounce kitten wouldn't have a chance.
We didn't have any food, so we took the kitten and headed over to a local pet store. After we explained the situation, and showed off our little bundle of joy, one of the groomers decided to adopt Little, as I was already calling her. I reluctantly said goodbye, and Paul nearly dragged me out of the store before I insisted on taking her home.
I know it's for the best. I just felt odd leaving her there. She'd already been left behind once.
I kept dreaming about her, hearing her little voice, and having nebulous fears. After three days of futilely trying to find the woman who said she'd adopt her, I finally spoke with her. To my horror, I discovered that not five minutes after we'd paid for formula and bottles, and were reassured over and over that the kitten would be all right, they had called a woman who fosters for the Humane Society to come and get the baby cat. I had told them repeatedly if they couldn't care for her, we'd take her.
They lied to us and we didn't appreciate that. Needless to say, we won't be shopping there anymore.
I finally got them to give me the phone number of the foster cat-lady and I spoke to her. She was quite nice and I felt better, although I was still upset with the store's cavalier attitude. She said that the kitten was sleeping through the night, but that she was being fed hourly and that wasn't a good sign. They are going to try to get her fostered with a nursing cat mother soon. I hope it works.
I'll call soon to see how she is faring.
Meanwhile, I'll keep hearing her little voice in my dreams...
