He is pressed against my bosom and holds onto life with tiny claws on my skin. My maternal instincts rush over me and I hold onto hope that he will live.
His sister, also two days old, is vigorous wanting constant droppers of formula and despite being deaf and blind, would like to traipse around the house. I keep her in my apron pocket or in the safety of a warm kennel while I sweep the house, the little boy still pressed to me. Overall, I am not getting much work done. I have had chicks that were bigger than these kittens. I know I shouldn’t name them, I am not even a hundred percent certain of their sex. But I did.
They were found at the feed store in the basement, half froze, umbilical cords attached, cleaned, but no mama in sight. A feral cat could be hiding or not able to get back in or gone. I woke up every few hours to feed them last night. To nestle them. To breathe them to life. Mothers are not limited by creature or love.