Saturday, November 26, 2005
Shackleton Appears
One spring afternoon, I opened the front door to find the woman who cleaned house for me standing there with a shoebox. Instantly, I had a sinking feeling, shoeboxes meant trouble. Baby possums, birds and other critters always arrived in one of those cardboard ubiquties. Elena (I'll call her that) smiled at me and removed the lid of the box. Sure enough, inside was a kitten, a tiny orange and white fur ball, one eye closed, the other just beginnning to open. I knew from those eyes that this little one was less than two weeks old, too young to be separated from its mother.
Elena began a detailed explanation in Spanish. While my ability to understand Spanish far exceeds my ability to speak the language, very little of what Elena said registered. What I did understand was that I was the solution to the problem. What problem? I made Elena repeat her story, and I interrupted frequently to be sure I understood.
The kitten had been found in the garbage behind the restaurant where Elena worked nights, by a busboy putting out trash. The kitten's helplessness had caused a stir among all the staff. Even the restaurant owner had been brought into the discussion of what to do with such a tiny one. Elena happily told me that she had announced to all that this was no problem because she knew a lady that would care for the kitten. She, of course, meant me.
While I appreciated her confidence in me, I knew it might be ill placed. A kitten this young, separated from his mother, was not likely to survive. I told her that even as I checked my watch. My vet was still open; if I hurried I could get the kitten to him. With a quick explanation to Elena I headed out.
I arrived at my veterinarian only minutes before closing. My vet, Dan, was also familiar with shoebox catastrophes. Without a word he took the box. My first question was "Will he live?"
"He's about ten days old, but he has a chance. Let me keep him over night. Does he have a name?"
"No, I haven't thought of one."
Dan's assistant chimed in, "We'll call him Baby Kitty."
The next morning I called around ten. I knew from experience that the clinic settled down around then and I could expect immediate help. "How's the kitten?" I asked.
"Doing fine. You can take him home."
Ten minutes later, I had the shoebox and its orange contents again. Dan said, "it's a male. You'll need to feed it often and stimulate it to defecate and urinate. I think it has a good chance."
I headed to the nearest locally owned petstore to buy kitten supplies. As I purchased the requisite bottle and formula, everyone had to see what was in the box. Everyone oohed and ahhed over Baby Kitty. Many had never seen a kitten so young. Baby kitty did not seem to mind the attention.
When I reached home, I knew I had to devise a way to keep my adult cats away from this little one. The solution was to ensconse him in the largest cat carrier I owned. I made a litter box out of the top of the shoebox, covered in foil. Wishful thinking. I fixed a bed with a clean towel in the rear, but the kitten looked lost. Then I remembered. I had a black and white stuffed cat for visiting kids to play with. I found it and soon the kitten was snuggled up between its front paws. That stuffed cat would be Baby Kitty's surrogate mom until he was several months old.
The next week and a half went well. Baby Kitty loved his bottle and responded appropriately to stimulus. I had noticed that he was not as active as kittens his age we had raised before. At first, I just decided that it was the lack of a mother that made the difference, but a few more days passed and I knew we had problems. Baby Kitty did not seem able to see even though his eyes were open, and he was not walking at all. Back to my vet and half day stay for evaluation.
When I picked him up, the diagnosis was not good. He was blind and his rear legs did not work although he had feeling in them. Dan thought the kitten had neurological damage either from birth or from being tossed in the trash. I asked for a prognosis. There, I was luckier. Dan thought that there was a good chance that Baby Kitty would be able to see because most to the problem seemed to be a lack of muscular control of his eyes. Dan just didn't know about the legs. He had never seen a kitten with this problem.
When I reached home, I told my Mom, who had Parkinson's Disease, the diagnosis. Mom looked at me and grinned. "He'll fit right in."
I understood instantly. I had a problem with the nerves leading up the left side of my head into my brain. Mom had had a stroke as well as Parkinson's. What better place for a brain damaged kitten than with two brain damaged women.
Baby Kitty did fit in. Mom would sit on the front porch in the mornings and Baby Kitty sat between her feet. He played with her shoes and her shoelaces. Slowly, he was gaining eyesight, but those rear legs just did not work. He sort of scooted around Mom's feet and played with those rear legs as if they had no connection to him. Then one day he managed to get both rear legs under him. Baby Kitty stood up.
From that moment on Baby Kitty worked at walking. Obviously, he had to think about what he was doing. He also had no idea where his rear legs were, but he walked. His gait was slow and stumbling and since he could not see very well, he ran into everything and fell often. He persevered.
By his next check-up, he was almost normal. Dan was satisfied that Baby Kitty would lead a full life with little noticeable handicap. Dan was correct.
Baby Kitty has grown into an adventurous, although smaller than average cat. He has a name - Shackleton (Shack for short). Shackleton was an Antarctic explorer who did not give up when faced with life and death struggles. My Shackleton has that same fierce spirit.
Elena began a detailed explanation in Spanish. While my ability to understand Spanish far exceeds my ability to speak the language, very little of what Elena said registered. What I did understand was that I was the solution to the problem. What problem? I made Elena repeat her story, and I interrupted frequently to be sure I understood.
The kitten had been found in the garbage behind the restaurant where Elena worked nights, by a busboy putting out trash. The kitten's helplessness had caused a stir among all the staff. Even the restaurant owner had been brought into the discussion of what to do with such a tiny one. Elena happily told me that she had announced to all that this was no problem because she knew a lady that would care for the kitten. She, of course, meant me.
While I appreciated her confidence in me, I knew it might be ill placed. A kitten this young, separated from his mother, was not likely to survive. I told her that even as I checked my watch. My vet was still open; if I hurried I could get the kitten to him. With a quick explanation to Elena I headed out.
I arrived at my veterinarian only minutes before closing. My vet, Dan, was also familiar with shoebox catastrophes. Without a word he took the box. My first question was "Will he live?"
"He's about ten days old, but he has a chance. Let me keep him over night. Does he have a name?"
"No, I haven't thought of one."
Dan's assistant chimed in, "We'll call him Baby Kitty."
The next morning I called around ten. I knew from experience that the clinic settled down around then and I could expect immediate help. "How's the kitten?" I asked.
"Doing fine. You can take him home."
Ten minutes later, I had the shoebox and its orange contents again. Dan said, "it's a male. You'll need to feed it often and stimulate it to defecate and urinate. I think it has a good chance."
I headed to the nearest locally owned petstore to buy kitten supplies. As I purchased the requisite bottle and formula, everyone had to see what was in the box. Everyone oohed and ahhed over Baby Kitty. Many had never seen a kitten so young. Baby kitty did not seem to mind the attention.
When I reached home, I knew I had to devise a way to keep my adult cats away from this little one. The solution was to ensconse him in the largest cat carrier I owned. I made a litter box out of the top of the shoebox, covered in foil. Wishful thinking. I fixed a bed with a clean towel in the rear, but the kitten looked lost. Then I remembered. I had a black and white stuffed cat for visiting kids to play with. I found it and soon the kitten was snuggled up between its front paws. That stuffed cat would be Baby Kitty's surrogate mom until he was several months old.
The next week and a half went well. Baby Kitty loved his bottle and responded appropriately to stimulus. I had noticed that he was not as active as kittens his age we had raised before. At first, I just decided that it was the lack of a mother that made the difference, but a few more days passed and I knew we had problems. Baby Kitty did not seem able to see even though his eyes were open, and he was not walking at all. Back to my vet and half day stay for evaluation.
When I picked him up, the diagnosis was not good. He was blind and his rear legs did not work although he had feeling in them. Dan thought the kitten had neurological damage either from birth or from being tossed in the trash. I asked for a prognosis. There, I was luckier. Dan thought that there was a good chance that Baby Kitty would be able to see because most to the problem seemed to be a lack of muscular control of his eyes. Dan just didn't know about the legs. He had never seen a kitten with this problem.
When I reached home, I told my Mom, who had Parkinson's Disease, the diagnosis. Mom looked at me and grinned. "He'll fit right in."
I understood instantly. I had a problem with the nerves leading up the left side of my head into my brain. Mom had had a stroke as well as Parkinson's. What better place for a brain damaged kitten than with two brain damaged women.
Baby Kitty did fit in. Mom would sit on the front porch in the mornings and Baby Kitty sat between her feet. He played with her shoes and her shoelaces. Slowly, he was gaining eyesight, but those rear legs just did not work. He sort of scooted around Mom's feet and played with those rear legs as if they had no connection to him. Then one day he managed to get both rear legs under him. Baby Kitty stood up.
From that moment on Baby Kitty worked at walking. Obviously, he had to think about what he was doing. He also had no idea where his rear legs were, but he walked. His gait was slow and stumbling and since he could not see very well, he ran into everything and fell often. He persevered.
By his next check-up, he was almost normal. Dan was satisfied that Baby Kitty would lead a full life with little noticeable handicap. Dan was correct.
Baby Kitty has grown into an adventurous, although smaller than average cat. He has a name - Shackleton (Shack for short). Shackleton was an Antarctic explorer who did not give up when faced with life and death struggles. My Shackleton has that same fierce spirit.
Labels: Baby Kitty, cats, kittens, Shackleton
# posted by January Cat @ 2:42 PM 
