For as long as I can remember I have had a special love for animals. When I was a teenager, neighborhood kids would knock on my door with wild animals they had found that were sick or injured. Many times I didn't even know the kids who came to the door. My mother would laugh and ask me if there were a sign outside that everyone but us could see that read, "Bring all orphaned animals here." She started calling me "Florence Nightingale of the Pet Set."
My mother shared my love for animals. She liked to pretend that she was put out by all the animals I acquired, but her eyes told another story. She cared deeply not only about animals but about people. She couldn't stand to see anyone or anything hurting or unhappy. I think this might have been partly because she was severely crippled with scoliosis, more commonly known as curvature of the spine. She had been through spinal fusion surgery as a teenager and had known suffering. My mother was a determined person, though, and never gave in to her handicap.
Many of the animals I ended up with were birds. It was my turn to laugh the day my mother brought home a wounded pigeon. Apparently someone had been using the bird for target practice, for he had a gunshot wound in his wing. We cleaned the wound and I put some antiseptic ointment on it. I kept him in a box in my room. He was such a friendly bird. When I came into the bedroom he would perk up and coo excitedly. He had the biggest eyes, so I named him Barney Google. When his wing was healed I put him on the birdbath in our back yard and encouraged him to fly to me. At first he didn't do very well, but after about a week I felt he was ready to be set free. He had other ideas, however. I guess he liked his new home and wasn't about to give it up. He hung around for weeks, never leaving the yard. Finally, one day he was gone. Just when I thought he'd gone back to wherever he belonged he showed up with a mate! He was not only planning to stay on, but to set up housekeeping as well!
When I was eighteen a young boy I knew found a tiny black kitten in a paper bag in the street by his house. It barely had its eyes open. I took the kitten, of course, and hand-raised it. At the time there were no special kitten formulas. I used regular cows' milk with a little light corn syrup mixed in. Amazingly, the kitten thrived. He was a solid black domestic shorthair that I named Dandy, after the song by Herman's Hermits of the same name. Dandy was a joy. Everyone kept telling me how pretty he was and that I should put him in a cat show. I finally took their advice and entered him in the household pets division of a local show. He took first place, best of color in every category, and even won a special award. He lived over sixteen years and would have lived longer if there had been a vaccine for feline leukemia back then.
When I was pregnant with my daughter in 1978 a little girl who lived in the apartment next door brought me a kitten one night. I guess the invisible sign had followed me. She said she had found it in the parking lot. It still had its umbilical cord and smelled like a newborn. I figured it was only a few hours old. He was a little black and gray tabby I called Shortcake. It was rather bad timing, because I really needed a lot of sleep, being six months pregnant, but Shortcake slept next to me and I took him to work with me. He did well and a woman at work fell in love with him. Since I already had two cats, and a baby on the way, I gave him to her when he was weaned.
Between September of 1987 and August of 1988 I raised six more kittens that people had brought to me. It was quite a year for orphans! I kept two of them and found good homes for the rest. Then in April of 1989 a kitten came along that would change my life. I got Linus.
Nellie, a sixty-plus-year-old animal lover at work, goes looking for trouble and finds it in a parking lot. Enter one slightly undersized red tabby kitten. Sex: male. Approximate age: a few hours at most.
When you find a kitten on your lunch hour what do you do with it? Hide it in Heather's office, of course. And who do you run and fetch? Me, of course! Everyone knows I have a weakness for anything dressed in fur or feathers.
We feed the kitten regular milk until 5:00, then I dash over to Petco and buy a can of special kitten formula. When I get home I mix up a batch and feed him his first real meal. I put towels in my small cat carrier and place him in it to sleep. He is awfully small and frail. I'm not too sure about his chances.
At 10:00 p.m. I put the kitten next to my bed so I would hear him if he woke up. Did I say "if?" By 11:00 he is already crying for food. He is ready for another meal by midnight.
The bottle nipple is a foreign object, however so he is resisting my attempts to feed him because his natural instincts tell him to reject it. He is not taking enough at a meal to keep him satisfied for very long so by 1:00 a.m. he's hungry again. At 2:00 a.m. I am awakened again. I start to feel like he is wearing a watch! Every hour on the hour he demands feeding.
Finally there is an improvement. He doesn't wake up again until 3:30 a.m. Well, that's a little better! He must be on a new schedule because he wakes up again at 5:00 a.m. Finally he sleeps for two hours and wakes up at 7:00 a.m. That's more like it, but it really doesn't matter now. I've been up since 6:00 a.m. getting ready for work. Putting on my makeup would be easier this morning if I weren't so tired and could see my face in the mirror. Maybe tonight will be better.
I took the kitten to work with me and he slept for two hours at a time. I fed him on my breaks and lunch hour. I figured if he had slept two hours while I was at work then there shouldn't be a problem with him sleeping at night. I set my alarm to wake me every two hours and we both do fine, but I'm beat! He's taking the milk a little better now, but he's still not sure what's going on. Once I get the nipple in his mouth and give a little squeeze on the bottle, just enough to let him know what's there, he accepts it.
Since I am up early I get out my veterinary handbook on cats and start reading. I didn't know kittens couldn't retain their own body heat the first four weeks of life. This is the ninth kitten I've raised and I never knew that. No wonder he feels cool to me. I haven't been keeping him warm enough.
The book says if the kitten gets chilled not to warm him up too fast and that carrying him close to your body for two or three hours is the best way. I get an old washcloth and pin it to a camisole with a flap to make a pouch and put him in it. He goes right to sleep and I carry him around like that most of the day. My husband Mike sure gives me a strange look when he sees the bulge in front of my shirt. I show him my "pouch." He thinks it's pretty funny. I have a 3:30 appointment with the vet to get my dog, Noel, her rabies shot and I have to take in Tabby, one of my cats, because she isn't feeling well.
I figure the only way to take in all three is to carry the kitten in my pouch. I can't leave him home because I know he will need to eat soon. In the waiting room, before the vet calls me in, the kitten wakes up. I get some rather odd stares from the other clients because I suddenly have a strange movement under my blouse. I really have them curious. I reach under and come up with a tiny kitten. I start feeding him the bottle I brought and finally a lady can't stand it anymore and has to ask what I have and why and where did I get it and so on.
Dr. McKitterick comes to call me in and asks, "What do you have there?" to which I reply, "Oh, not very much." I am still holding the kitten in my hand from feeding him so someone helps me with Noel. I tell the vet how I came by the kitten and he asks me why everyone always brings them to me, why someone else at work wouldn't take them to raise. I tell him they don't know what to do. "Who else, for example, would carry a kitten around in a pouch?" I say, showing my invention proudly. The poor man nearly collapses in a fit of laughter. The important thing is that the kitten is starting to warm up and really seems comfortable, although I have to be careful not to bump him against anything.
Something is wrong with this kitten. I think he's constipated. The handbook suggests Milk of Magnesia so that's what I'll use. Three drops for every ounce the kitten weighs. Ten drops will be right. By afternoon he is finally unblocked, but still looks bloated. Maybe it's gas. I hope he will be OK in the morning.
He's still bloated and his skin is so pink, like a rash. I don't like the looks of this. Tonight I'm going to read the book again. Maybe I missed something. I'm still worried about keeping him warm enough. I decide to wear the pouch under my sweater today. If he stays warm enough in my car I won't need the pouch, and if I have to put him in it I'll just have to keep a low profile at work. I tell Heather I'm worried about the car staying warm. She says, "It's too bad you can't have some kind of pouch or pocket under your clothes so you could carry him around with you." "Oh," I tell her as I show her. "You mean like this?" There goes Heather, down for the count. I turn and go out to feed him, leaving Heather doubled over, leaning against the wall, wiping her eyes in laughter. I guess she hadn't expected me to come up with the same idea and then have the courage to wear it!
It's Monday evening. I recheck the book and I did miss something! Kitten septicemia. Bloating and red skin are the first signs and are often mistaken for constipation. It says he will most likely die! I've got to get him to the doctor soon. But it's 9:30 at night and there's nothing I can do now. Oh, God, don't let him die! I feel panicky. I'm up with him every two hours and lie awake in between.
8:30 a.m. I call the vet and get an 11:30 appointment. I call personnel and tell them I will be taking an early and extended lunch. Our visit isn't so cheerful this time. Dr. McKitterick says I'm right, it is kitten septicemia, and he hasn't had any luck previously with this type of infection. The kitten probably got it from his mother when she bit the umbilical cord. Probably the whole litter got it. I can see in the way Dr. McKitterick looks at me that he is prepared to give up on the kitten. I'm not. I tell him I want to try and save him, so we set out to do just that. He gives me a supply of antibiotics and intravenous fluids I can administer at home. Fighting tears, I drive back to work.
This is more than I bargained for. I've become attached to this little life and I don't want to lose it. His abdomen is so bloated and pink. He looks as if he's in pain, but when I cuddle him he purrs like he hasn't a care in the world. He's five days old. He weighs about four ounces. His existence hangs around my heart like a brick. Dear God, let this kitten live!
All night I worry. When I'm not up caring for him I find it hard to get to sleep. I'm hardly eating anything. I'm too worried to eat, sleep, or work, but I try.
He's still alive, but for how long? I have no hope that he will survive and yet my heart won't let me give him up. I don't want him to have to use any strength for anything. I get up every hour or two and feed him so he doesn't wake up hungry and have to use energy crying. I'm doing enough crying for both of us, anyway. Every time I go in to see him my heart is in my throat until I see him and know he's still alive.
I think his abdomen has less of a bluish color today. The antibiotics are working. If he can just live long enough for them to overpower the infection. He's one week old today! This has been an exhausting week! If he can make it one more week I'll know we've licked this thing. One more long, agonizing week, though. Time is moving very slowly right now.
There's a man where I work who is on medical leave. Some of the women who work for him found out about my efforts and told me I could keep the kitten in his office, which is great because the weather has turned cool and this way I can plug in a heating pad to be sure the kitten stays warm enough. I'm starting to get my hopes up a little. I'm afraid to get them too high, though.
He's still improving! He's getting too big and too active for the pouch. He's doubled his birth weight and I think he's getting better. He's nursing more on his own now. I don't have to give little squeezes on the bottle to force him to drink anymore.
I really think he's going to make it! I think we did it!
He's two weeks old today. We're finished with the antibiotics. We did it! He's going to live! I know it now! He really made it!
After work I stop by to see Dr. McKitterick. He wanted to know if the kitten lived and what better way to tell him than to show him! Dr. McKitterick is thrilled. He says it was a miracle.
Linus became stronger each day that passed. When did I stop called him "the kitten" and start calling him Linus? When I knew he would live and knew for sure I was going to be able to keep him. Not that I could have given him up after what I went through to save him.
Linus was a treasure and most definitely a miracle. He slept in my arms and ran to me whenever I called him. I loved all my cats, but I knew that Linus and I would always have special feelings for each other. After all, I was his mom!
As Linus grew his personality blossomed. I think he was somehow more receptive to human feelings because he had never known a feline mother. I would hold him in my arms and tell him, "Stay with me for a long, long time, little son. Don't leave me." I loved him too much and I knew it even then. It scared me.
All night he would sleep on my pillow. I got used to sharing it with him. I also got used to his cold, wet nose nudging my cheek several times each night so I would wake up and pet him. After I reached up and stroked his soft fur he would settle back down and sleep for an hour or two, then wake me again and we'd repeat the process. I didn't mind. I loved his attentions. He was forever trying to get so close to me that when I took a bath he'd sit on the rim and would sometimes fall in the bathtub. I got into the habit of bringing in two towels, just in case.
Linus grew so fast. I weighed him when he was seven months old and he already weighed ten pounds. I figured it was time to get him neutered and wanted to have it done the week before Christmas, so near the end of November I called the vet and made the appointment. I had Christmas week off work and would be able to be home with him after the surgery.
On December 1st, I came home from the grocery store around 7:30 p.m. and when I opened the door, Linus was sitting there waiting for me, as always. He wasn't waiting to greet me, however. He had other plans. As I entered the house he darted out past me. He knew I didn't let him out in the front yard, and I didn't let him out at all after dark. Muttering a curse for not being more careful as I came in, I closed the door and went to put the groceries away. I figured in an hour or so he would be finished with his romp and be ready to come back inside.
Around 8:30 I went out to coax him back into the house. I was surprised when he was nowhere in sight. I called. No response. This, too, was strange. Even if Linus didn't want to come back in he always at least appeared from somewhere when I called him. I started walking around the outside of the house calling. When he didn't show up I decided to go back inside and try again later. I went out every fifteen or twenty minutes. By 1:00 a.m. I gave up and went to bed. I left the pet door open so he could come in when he came back. I was so worried. This was so unlike him.
I woke with a start around 6:00 in the morning with the realization that he wasn't on the pillow next to me. I jumped out of bed and dressed in a hurry and ran outside. Now I was really worried. I had the same feelings of panic I had when I first realized how sick he was as a kitten. I started going up and down the street calling Linus. There's a big field over our backyard fence and I searched the field, too. By 8:00 neighbors were starting to appear, and I began asking them if they'd seen Linus. No one had.
Around 10:00 the phone rang and before I could get to it the answering machine took a message. A woman's voice said, "Hello," then let out a sob and the line went dead. It would be a couple of hours before I understood the significance of that phone call.
When our friend from down the street, Gary, came by to visit, I told him Linus was missing. He took my husband, Mike, aside and told him that the night before when he and his wife were out walking they'd seen a dead cat on the sidewalk that fit Linus' description. The cat had apparently been hit by a car. Mike broke the news to me. We went out to where Gary said he'd seen the cat and found only a spot of blood on the sidewalk. I went up and down the street looking in people's trash cans, thinking maybe someone had picked him up and put him in one. I called the Humane Society, but no cat of Linus' description had been picked up.
Realization slowly dawned. The phone call. Why would someone cry in my answering machine and hang up? Linus had been wearing an ID tag and it had my phone number on it. The woman who hit him must have gone back, picked him up, tried to call us the next morning, but had lost her nerve. The answer to where Linus had gone was a two-second message on a tape, and I had no way of knowing where the message had come from.
Linus was lost to me forever. I wasn't even going to be given the chance to hold him one last time, to tell him goodbye, and to bury him.
Dealing with the grief of losing Linus was terribly difficult for me. I pretended that I'd find out he was still alive, that he'd only been injured, that the person who'd hit him had kept him and nursed him back to health just as I had done. For a while I let those dreams fill me with false hope. But I knew in my heart that he was dead. Not being able to say goodbye, though, made the loss harder than it might have been. If only the woman had left him for me to find, or had left a message on the answering machine so I could have gotten Linus from her and been able to bury him. She must have been afraid I would blame her, even though I knew it had been an accident. I had always hated funerals, but with Linus' death I realized that without the ceremonies that go with death, without ever actually seeing his body, there was a wound in my heart that would never completely heal. Even after four years, if I happen to see a big red tabby on the sidewalk or sitting in a yard, my first thought is always "Linus!"
There will never be another Linus in my life. The memory of him will be with me forever. I'm not saying that I will never love an animal deeply again, but the special bond we had was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Linus was, and will always be, my little feline son.
©1994 Karen Gunn