Cat-a-strophic!

Though my exam is less than a couple of months away, I'm shamelessly seeped in the wonderful world of James Herriot. Pen name for Alfred Wight, this veterinarian doctor has an exquisite hand, whether it comes to treating his patients or simply writing 'bout them.

And this had to happen to me. I was at chapter 41 of Dog Stories (a heart-warming book truly) when at around 5ish in the evening I became conscious of this tiny mewing going on and on. Now, it had rained, nay, poured in the afternoon, and obviously this tiny little kitten was alone and crying, lolling in the mud, waiting for its mother to come and pick it up. And the mother (it grew up in and around my house) was there sitting on the parapet wall, mewing in its own tenor. It lazily ambled along and meanwhile I (quite foolishly) went and picked up the little feller, brushed a red ant off it and set about rubbing it dry.

Her majesty strolled in a few minutes later and when I placed the apple of her eye in front of her, what do you know! One sniff and about-turn. Yikes man! What could I do??? Most unfortunately I was still in Herriot's-ville with the Yorkshire Dales' ethereal earthiness and lush greenery embossed in the mind. Did I mention that it had rained? Yes? Good. The sky looked laundered and the earth moist and green. It could've been Yorkshire itself for Rama's sake. As such, with each passing chapter of Herriot's, my desire for a pet was increasing by leaps and bounds. And lo behold! Here was a helpless kitten, evidently causing no flutter of motherhood in its mom. It was like Nature had smiled and said "You asked for it!" And I had revelled in the fact.

The internet came to my rescue and I figured out what I had to feed the little one. Went out, got a teeny milk bottle and multi-vitamin syrup and eggs and stuff. I was heady with this surrogate-mom feeling. This was going to be my baby. :) But it was not to be that way I guess. Feeding a little one is WAY tougher than it looks man! I've often wondered why is it that people get annoyed when their child doesn't drink milk, or eat whatever it is that they wanted it to eat. They just had to handle it with patience I felt. But now I knew. My furry little buddy refused to get anywhere near that bottle. How I managed to coax and cajole and feed it, only I know.

By the end of the whole thing, I was heartily sick. I prayed for the mother to come back and take it under its wing ...er... paw. Took a nice little chappal box, line it with a whole edition of New Indian Express, put my new best friend in it, and placed it outside. At around 9.45 PM, I heard teeny mews again. Stepped out with the intention of checking on it. Surprise! It was sound asleep. Mew! Mew! The noise cut the surrounding silence again. And to top it, it had that oh-so-vulnerable tenor attached to it. Enough to melt the hardest hearts. And mine, as everyone knows does not fall into that category anyway, which means, the problem of not melting never arises.

Stealthily climbing over the neighbour's parapet wall, I landed on the other side of the wall, and gulp ... of the law. Silence again. I couldn't go so far as the windows in case someone saw me. I was too young to go to prison anyway. So I turned back. And there it was again. Mew-Mewwwwwwww ... take-me-hooooooooome, I'm-coooold-and-hungryyyyyyy, I-want-my-mommmmyyyyyyy, the cries said. Again the expedition began. And not a fruitless one, this one. I found the tiny one (this was even smaller than its sibling) wet, hungry and crying. Oh god. Not again! It doesn't take a mastermind to guess that I took this one home too.

My first thought was to feed this chap but I read (obv, on the net) that feeding a cold kitten recks its digestion. So I set 'bout making the fellow warm. Unlike in the previous case, I had no advantage of time over this one. It had already had its share of cold, and sleep. And now it only had hunger. And to prove a point, it started yelling loudly, MEW MEW MEW all over the place. And boy, for a tiny body the size of my palm, it could bring the house down with those perpetual cries for food.

I ushered in my trusty vapourizer and let that comfortable steam steal over the kitten's body. After which I set 'bout feeding it. This fellow, unlike its predecessor, went for the bottle with gusto (relatively speaking) and I understood why motherhood was considered so important and fulfilling. The joy of feeding someone far more vulnerable, the responsibility of taking care of someone dependant on you ... its an exalted feeling. But enough of senti ... the newest member of the gang was placed along with its sibling in their makeshift home of cardboard and paper.

Apparently new born kittens must be fed every 1.5-2 hours. And I don't think they like the concoction I so lovingly, brewed for them. They must think that I'm being a nuisance waking them up and pouring that wierd mixture down their throat. But I've got to do it.

I love cats you know. If I ever have a pet, it'd be a cat. But I'm praying here that the mother cat would come and take these two guys back into its fold. Its too big a responsibility for me ... those little fellers need the warmth of their mom, not some dumb bottle with lactose shoved down their throat. Please Lord Rama, let the mother come and take 'em both back! Pleaaaaaaaaaase!!!

PS : I'd have pasted a couple of snaps here, but those guys are too young, way way way too young to have someone photograph them even! Bhagavan ... if they live, I'll come and break a couple of coconuts for you!

PSS : Feeding time ... gotta go!