I came home from school one afternoon to find a mouse-sized white and grey kitten bundled in a forest-green towel, sleeping by the fireplace. My father had found him in the bramble outside our house. His eyes were sealed shut, his mouth was a pale pink slit, and his nose like a jellybean. His legs were not yet strong enough to support him, so he wiggled around on his belly, using his limbs to push himself forward.
“Where’s his mother?” I asked, stroking his smooth little head.
“He was abandoned,” my mother answered.
“Why would she abandon her baby?”
“Sometimes, the mother will leave behind one of the kittens,” she explained, “if it’s sick or weaker than the rest of the litter. She does it to protect the other kittens.”
My mother made a formula for the kitten, something supposedly similar to its mother’s milk. It consisted of egg yolk, vitamin D drops, corn syrup, and Carnation milk. She held the kitten in her hand and parted his little pink lips with the tip of an eyedropper, gently squeezing the red rubber bulb to release the liquid into his mouth as he mewed sharply.
We named the kitten Bramble because of where my father had found him. I would think about Bramble all day at school, running home at the sound of the bell to find him napping or squirming about. I’d pick him up and clutch him below my chin, his hamster-like paws tickling my neck.
Then one day, Bramble died. My mother couldn’t give me a reason why, other than he must have been sick. It didn’t seem as if Bramble’s sudden death was at all traumatic to my parents. My mother continued with her cleaning duties as my father scooped up the minuscule carcass and placed it inside a shoebox. He asked if I wanted to say goodbye, and kneeling, held the box open for me.
Sobbing, I tried to touch the kitten one last time, but the cold, lifeless body terrified me, and I screamed and shielded my swollen eyes.
Carrying the box, my father left through the back door. I peeked out the window, catching him just as he dropped it into the trashcan on the corner.