23 Three New Faces
It was the strange throaty meow of a cat that had drawn Joe outside into the street. Curious, he looked around, but didn’t need to look far.
“Vicky! VICKY! Come out here! Quickly, and bring the camera!”
I dropped everything, grabbed the camera, and shot outside. Joe pointed to the ground. There, just beside our doorstep, was the blue-eyed cat nosing something resembling a skinned pink mouse. I crouched down for a closer look. It was a tiny newborn kitten.
Born in the street
“Oh my...” I breathed. This kitten was brand new, just minutes old. “Why here?” I whispered. “Why on the street? Why hasn’t she made a nest somewhere and hidden it?”
“I have no idea,” said Joe. “See if you can find a box, she can’t stay here on the street with it. The village dogs will attack it.”
I ran back inside and searched frantically for a suitable box, but all I could find was a square blue bowl we sometimes used for mixing small quantities of cement. I grabbed some straw from the chicken coop and lined the bowl. All this only took a few minutes, but by the time I got outside again, a second kitten had been born in the street.
“She just kind of sighed,” said Joe in wonder. “And another one popped out.”
“I found this bowl,” I said. “It should do the job.”
“Do you think Mum will let me pick up her babies?” asked Joe. “I’ll have to put them in the box.”
“We’ve got no choice, you’ll have to try. We can’t leave them here.”
Very carefully, Joe picked up the first kitten and placed it on the bed of straw. MumCat didn’t seem to object. He picked up the second and laid it with the first. Both kittens began to mewl and squirm and MumCat didn’t hesitate. She hopped straight into the bowl with them and gave her babies a good wash.
“Now what?” Joe asked, giving his crotch a good scratch. “Where are we going to put them?”
“Can’t we...”
“No. You know we can’t keep them. What if we want to pop over to Australia again, or somewhere else? Who’d look after them?”
“But if we...”
“We can’t keep them. We already feed Sylvia and Gravy, and you want to take on three more cats? No.”
“Well, what shall we do?” I was disappointed, but I knew Joe was right.
“I don’t know.” Joe shook his head. “First we need to find somewhere quiet where the dogs can’t get them. When we’ve done that, we can decide what to do.”
I wracked my brain trying to think of a quiet, safe place where MumCat and her babies would be undisturbed.
“How about the cemetery? It’s got walls all round, and a gate you have to untie. They'd be fine in there.”
Joe thought about it. “The cemetery? Good idea. You’re right, dogs can’t get in and the village kids don’t play in there. Okay, we’d better get them moved then.”
He leaned down and carefully lifted the bowl. I expected MumCat to leap out, but she didn’t. As slow as a funeral march, Joe carried the family up the street to the cemetery gates. By the time we reached the cemetery and I had untied the frayed rope holding the gates together, MumCat had given birth to a third kitten, much smaller than the first two.
Joe carrying MumCat
I like graveyards, but I’ve always found English ones rather depressing. Headstones are often vandalised and graves lie untended, with withered bouquets left to rot and fake flowers fading in overturned pots. Spanish cemeteries are much more cheerful places, particularly El Hoyo’s. White walls encircle neat gravestones and vases of fresh flowers provide plenty of colour. Plaques with smiling photographs of the deceased can be seen on every wall, glinting in the sunshine. Birds settle in the ancient tree and sing to the dear departed.
The cemetery has a little ante-room with sinks and running water and a table made of flagstones. The table is big, designed to rest coffins on, I suspect, not just for flower arranging. But having never, as yet, attended a village funeral, I’m not sure.
Outside was unsheltered and hot, so we decided to place the box under the huge table in the ante-room. I ran home and gathered together catfood, milk and bowls. By the time I returned, all three kittens had latched on to MumCat and were feeding eagerly.
“Well, that’s that,” said Joe. “They’ll be okay now.”
But that night I couldn’t sleep. Today was a weekday and El Hoyo was quiet, but the weekend was looming. Although we loved the villagers, we were realistic. We knew that most Spanish people consider village cats to be vermin. If the kittens were discovered their destiny would hang in the balance. At best they would be tormented, at worst, destroyed. And what if a funeral took place in the near future? Their situation was precarious indeed. I tossed and turned.
“Go to sleep,” Joe growled, but I couldn’t.
At last morning arrived, and I broached the subject to Joe.
“Joe, I don’t think MumCat and her kittens are safe in the cemetery. I think somebody will find them and hurt them. You know the village is already awash with feral cats, and three more aren’t going to be welcome.” I expected Joe to argue, but he didn’t.
“No, you’re right, I was thinking that myself. Too many people go into the cemetery and somebody’s going to find them. But where else can we put them?”
“We could put them in our woodshed.”
“Yes, we could... But what about Sylvia and Gravy?”
“They may all be related, you never know, perhaps they’ll get on well together.”
“Okay Vicky, but we are not keeping them, you know that, don’t you? It’s just a temporary measure. We can’t take on four more cats.”
We walked back to the cemetery where all was quiet and well. MumCat jumped out of the box to welcome us and the kittens looked fine, even the little runt, the last born. Their fur had fluffed out a little during the night, and we could see that all three were white.
Moving the family again was easy, thanks to MumCat’s trusting nature and hearty appetite. I called her and let her sniff the cat-food, then walked down the street, showing her the food at regular intervals. She followed without a fuss. Joe brought up the rear carrying the bowl with the three kittens squirming and wriggling on the straw. MumCat looked over her shoulder a few times to check on her babies but appeared otherwise unconcerned.
Our woodshed is not really a shed at all. It’s a brick-built structure with walls on three sides and a tiled, sloping roof. Being April, there wasn’t much wood stacked in there, so Joe placed the bowl in a corner. MumCat glanced up, but was too busy eating to fret.
All went well and we didn’t really need to do a thing: MumCat had it all in paw. She fed those kittens until their tummies were round and tight, and washed them all day long.
Poor Sylvia and Gravy made an appearance but were chased out of the garden by MumCat. We were concerned, but found a way round the problem by feeding them on the roof terrace, out of MumCat’s line of vision.
But the nagging worry remained. Suddenly we were responsible for three new little lives, and their mother. What were we going to do with all these cats? We knew we’d never find homes for them as we seldom mixed in expat circles, and no locals would want them. So I turned to the Internet and posted our problem on some expat forums, including AlmerimarLife.com, asking for advice.
2010-04-19 13:02:10
Like most places in Spain, there are dozens of feral cats in our village.
Joe and I are familiar with this particular cat because of her china blue eyes and Siamese looks, and she is much tamer than most. We’d noticed she was pregnant, but we certainly didn’t expect her to give birth in the street right outside our front door.
This is the YouTube video of what happened next:
(Turn volume on) http://youtu.be/pceTSk00Fjc
Anyway, we had to move them again, and now they are in our woodshed, safe from dogs and human interference.
The problem is, we can't keep them as we already care for and feed two other wild cats.
So, is there anyone who could offer a home to any of them when they're weaned? Their eyes aren't open yet, but if they are anything like Mum, they are going to be beautiful with extraordinary blue eyes and Siamese markings. We'll carry on looking after Mum and get her spayed, but we can't keep the kittens, too.
Can anyone in the Almeria area help? (Keeping my fingers crossed.)
Victoria
The only person to respond was Sandra Marshall, co-owner of AlmerimarLife.com. She was in the UK at the time, unable to return home because of the Icelandic volcanic dust cloud that was grounding all flights.
2010-04-19 21:35:52
Hi Victoria. Yes I will try and help. I am Chris's wife and I and friends rescue stray animals and re-home them. Check out my blog Alstrays.com.
I am currently stranded in the UK but if you send telephone numbers and email I will contact you when I get home.
I'm assuming we are looking at 4-6 weeks from now anyway?
Where exactly are you?
If the mother is sweet we may be able to help her too. She is very beautiful.
Sandra
What a relief! I got in touch with Sandra and she hatched a plan. Joe and I would foster the family and bring them to the vet for routine vaccinations. Meanwhile, Sandra and Alstrays would search out homes for them. Surprisingly, the new homes would be in Germany. Every few months, Alstrays packed a truck crammed with cats and dogs and drove them to waiting German owners.
I liked the idea. I liked the thought of watching the kittens grow up in the safety of our garden, knowing they had homes awaiting them. I also liked the fact that they weren’t going to join the feral cat community in the village, forced to scrounge food, uncared for. I wasn’t sure if Joe would agree as he’d made it clear we weren’t keeping them, and Sandra’s plan meant we’d have them with us for a couple of months. I broke the news gently to Joe and was greatly relieved when he didn’t seem to object to this temporary arrangement.
“Okay,” he said, “if it’s just for two months. But they’re not coming into the house because we’ll just get too attached to them.”
I promised. I thoroughly enjoyed watching MumCat nurturing her little family, even if it was only in the garden.
Very soon, the two first-born kittens’ eyes opened, followed by the little runt. They looked blue, and I hoped they’d all inherit that unusual, azure colour their mother was blessed with. All three grew stronger daily, the two big kittens vigorously wriggling around the box, often flattening their weaker, smaller sibling. I could see other differences, too. Their colouring was changing; the ears and tails were becoming darker on all three.
At the moment they were nameless and I had no idea of their gender. Being no expert, I consulted the Internet, and, armed with my new-found knowledge, approached their box.
“They’re so tiny!” I said to Joe. “I’m almost scared to pick them up in case I hurt them.”
“Oh, they’re stronger than they look.”
MumCat didn’t complain when I picked each kitten up and turned it over for a careful examination. The two big ones protested noisily and tried to squirm out of my hand. The little kitten was much more placid, and didn’t object at all to the handling and undignified close scrutiny.
The runt of the litter
Two big girls and a little boy! Even knowing that, we made no effort to name them for fear of becoming too attached. But already they were developing personalities and their markings were changing daily.
Every morning, before I’d even had a coffee or dressed, I’d saunter down the garden to see how they were all faring and fill MumCat’s saucers with food and milk. But one morning, I was confronted with an empty box of straw. There was not a cat or kitten in sight.