Three weeks ago today I got a friend’s message and headed to the feed mill armed with formula, bottles, and Pedialyte. They were not even a day old. Found in the basement of an ancient building, half frozen, their feral mother vanished. I became the mama.
Every two hours through the night I fed them with dropper bottles. I cried as I dug a hole and buried one under the old crone elm. He was two days old. But you would have thought I had him for much longer! (All of these pictures are of the baby that survived.)
The little girl that I carried in my shirt for two weeks is actually a boy. We named him Merlin but we were recently updated by our four year old granddaughter, Maryjane, that his name is Ratatouille. I stand corrected.
The two younger kitties have taken to him-or think he is a mouse- and want to play with him and give him rough cleanings. They are little boys too and it does seem that they are a little rougher than a mother would be. We are going to have three hooligans running around this place. The older two cats already know it and have taken to hissing.
Ratatouille is now sleeping through the night and eating every four hours. We introduced food yesterday and he seems to be out of the woods and thriving. He has a bit of a Buddha tummy. Perhaps we should have called him that.
It is far too easy to remember the bad. I couldn’t save the sweet little boy that I held. His body decomposing under the soil. But, one did make it. That is what is important. Lives of all sorts are important. Some are just not as long as others. The real priority is to celebrate the lives we have, the life we have today, the ones that are here now. All of us on this beautiful journey together.