Feline Smoke Alarms

Often, cats outnumber all of the other residents in the melting pot of my barn.

I like to have enough cats to put a dent in the mice and gopher populations, but not so many that they start eating baby chicks and all of the dog food.

Managing any of the livestock populations is fundamental to keeping the ranch functioning, but cats are always a volatile moving target.

Lately, only one cat was slinking around the barn.

She was timid but would come for breakfast if I set it on a barrel and backed away.

As winter turned to spring, I knew a second cat must be around somewhere because the cat I fed was going to increase in the barn population soon.

I was glad.

A few weeks ago, the cat quit appearing. I figured she was busy caring for new kittens.

We have lambs, chicks, calves and puppies running around the ranch. It should not be long before the mama introduced her babies to the rest of the barn residents.

So I was surprised when I walked into the barn one afternoon to hear the panicked, desperate cacophony of crying kittens.

What a racket came from three tiny bodies.

Even the chickens were at a loss to compete with the cries that echoed from the rafters.

No mother, of any species, could ignore that desperation.

The mama cat must be dead.

I scooped up the kittens.

They peered at me through dark blue eyes.

I carried all three through the blustery wind, up to the house.

A couple of them sneezed as we hurried.

Another one purred as his talon-claws bit into my shoulder.

I set up a temporary kitten condo in the garage.

My mind searched for a viable plan to get them back to the barn eventually, didn’t come up with one, so settled on safe and warm for now.

My daughter, Abby, had raised kittens before so we had a recipe for kitten formula.

Desperate, I texted Abby to ask where it was.

“On the refrigerator, Mom.”

Oh.

I moved a few photos and found it.

The kittens were still screaming like a smoke alarm when I brought the bottle to them.

The orphan lambs needed a bottle, too, but they would have to wait. It’s hard to think about anything else with that kind of insistence in your ear.

Jack, Winston and Eloise.

Abby and I took about 30 seconds to choose perfect names.

Eloise might be a male.

Jack might be a female.

We don’t really care.

My feline and ovine daycare business suddenly took most of each day, precluding any other form of productivity.

Kittens are a high-risk, low-return investment of time, but as long as the cattle and sheep were thriving, I didn’t mind being paid in purrs.

Until Abby needed her mom.

Abby won the divisional tennis championship and was headed to the state tournament.

I quickly prioritized my maternal duties.

The lambs would survive my absence with a bucket of milk, but the kittens would not.

I loaded Winston, Eloise and Jack into a cooler layered with straw, propped the lid open with cardboard and headed to the tennis tournament.

Jack immediately tried to escape.

The kittens received their lunch between tennis matches.

Two weeks later, the kittens still sound the smoke alarm for regular meals.

Yet, yesterday, Eloise rolled on her back in the warm sunshine. Winston cougar-pounced in too-tall grass.

I made a playpen from chicken wire so they can explore the yard, protected from hungry owls.

Eloise and Winston love the bottle. Jack doesn’t eat as much.

None of them is guaranteed a long life.

But as long as they try, I’ll try.

I prosper in purrs.