Brand New Passengers

Saturday marked the end of an era for me: my final full day in the place I am lucky enough to have called Home these past seven months. I had a simple plan for my last day: a short four mile hike through the redwood forest neighborhood, into the Open Space Preserve and back again.

Skyline Boulevard in my ‘hood is a two lane 50mph zone highway frequented by both motorcyclists and traditional bikers. There are seldom more than one or two cars at a time racing down the road, and seldom ever another pedestrian along the trail that acts as a “sidewalk” a few yards from the pavement.

After passing the final homestead on the boulevard before reaching the preserve’s entrance, this sidewalk came to an end. I carefully traversed the thickened mud and leaf piles to the right of the road’s white line.

I was pulled from the serenity of my own thoughts by a noise that stopped me dead in my tracks: a very distinct “Meeew!” I listened again. That was definitely not a bird. I turned toward the other side of the road.

It beckoned again.

I looked both ways, and crossed the road. There, only a few inches from the white line, a grey and white kitten no bigger than my hand lay on his back, his head cocked in a severe angle, his mouth slightly open, and his little legs flat against his tummy. The cry came again, and I quickly surveyed the scene searching for its source.

A few yards away from the kitten I suspected dead, a dark grey and black kitten was trying to climb up from the foliage on the downward slope of the hill that led to the forest. It was her that had called out to me.

To my left, a yard up the street another kitten crawled about, crying, searching for her sister. And to my right, a grey kitten slowly explored the forest floor on the edge of the pavement.

The cry came again.

“I hear you, I’m here,” I replied. Their eyes were still closed, that’s how young there were. Looking at the scene, they way they were scattered, at the one I feared dead, I could only think: Someone threw these kittens out a car window..

I don’t know if that’s true or not. Perhaps their mother had abandoned them. The injured one could have been picked off by one of the ravens that are bigger than beagles in this neighborhood, and then dropped from a great height. From the placement of them though, I could only imagine someone with two handfuls of kittens, tossing them into the air.

Had they been in a neat little pile, hidden away from the road, I would have left them, believing their mother was off hunting. But this one needed medical attention. And this loudmouth crawling up the hill had clearly indicated she needed assistance.

I scooped up the three wandering souls and placed them in a neat little kitten pile. The fourth, still on his back, a drop of urine on his genitals, I was torn about what to do. It looked like he had a broken back. If I moved him, I might do more harm. But I could not leave him there, dead or alive. I gently touched him and he did not respond. I did my best to move him delicately, but he was a rag doll between my fingers. I placed him next to his siblings, and they snuggled together.

I took off my jacket and carefully placed the new lives into my jacket where I could securely carry them back to my truck.

Not the most smooth of custom rides, I walked the mile briskly back—the cabin seeming to be farther away than I had ever imagined. Time was of the essence. I had no idea how long they had been abandoned, but I know that kittens need to feed every 2-3 hours. And this sad one, still unresponsive but moving of his own volition ever so slightly, needed medical attention pronto.

When I arrived back at my place, my landlords contributed a cardboard box I requested so I could assure that the loudest and most mobile one wouldn’t go AWHOL in my truck on the ride down the mountain.

I turned up the heat in the truck, and hoped they would stay warm inside the jacket without suffocating one another. I watched as they stepped upon one another’s faces, tiny paws pushing down on someone else’s abdomen: how do they survive at all?

“Okay, kids, this is going to be a bit of a ride, but I’m going to get you help.”

The Peninsula Humane Society had just opened its new adoption center that September. It was state of the art and innovative design with no more cages and bars: all the animals had rooms one could go in and visit them. They even had a kitten nursery upstairs.

Due to my exposure in the rescue world, I am aware that this is the beginning of “kitten season,” and that most shelters will euthanize unweaned kittens on the spot. Kittens under eight weeks old need their mothers. Without them, volunteers are needed to bottle-feed them formula every few hours, and those volunteers are scarce. However, this was the Bay Area, where people were helpful and enlightened, people gave a crap.. but also where possibly someone tossed these animals out of a car window.

I was having a hard time keeping my shit together when I walked into the animals shelter as a typical spring time cliché: a distraught single person walking in with a box of kittens in her arms. I was ashamed, a part of the problem now—someone surrendering animals.

But I had found them; I should feel welcome at a shelter. This is what an animal shelter should be doing: helping those who help animals. I should feel safe, leaving them here. And yet, as the staff member spoke the words I knew intellectually all this time, it takes on a whole meaning when I’m on the other side of the shelter desk—the one who is responsible for these lives.

“They’re not even a week old. If you leave them here, we will euthanize them.”

It was that simple. I knew the reality of the shelter system, but this was supposed to be different.

“What about your nursery?” I asked through the tears.

“That’s for nursing mothers with kittens. We don’t have fosters available to bottle feed them, and even if we did, they’re far too young.”

But isn’t this what a SHELTER should do?

This woman then proceeded to imply that I stolen these kittens from a den, and that their mother was likely to return. The other staff member said, “Yeah, it’s hard to just leave them there.” I’m sorry: are you telling the public to NOT GET INVOLVED WITH THE WORLD AROUND THEM?!

Wow. Nothing like a whole heap of helplessness and hopelessness when all you wanted was to save a few lives and get medical attention to one who is injured. Instead, she just blamed me for what she would have to do: kill them. So, what she was saying was: I KILLED THESE KITTENS.

Now I was a hot mess. “Fine. Do you have any information on bottle-feeding?”

These cats were not going to die. They would live. If it meant a crash course in feeding, so be it. If it meant stopping every two hours on the six-hour drive back to Los Angeles the next day, fine. These souls cried out for help; I answered. I was not delivering them to their death.

The staff member gave me a cold look. “I don’t want to be discouraging, but it’s tough. And they’ll probably die anyway.”

I had seen a pregnant cat at a neighbor’s. “Do cats lactate before giving birth or only after?” I asked, trying to seek another solution.

“Before, but we don’t recommend you try to give them to another cat.”

Jesus Christ, woman! Do you have anything to offer besides death? If not, get the fuck out of my way and let me do what you should be doing: offering solutions that involve these animals STAYING ALIVE.

After what seemed a half an hour search for a beginner’s bottle-feeding kit, she handed over a Ziploc baggie with one can of formula, two syringes, and two rubber nipples that I evidently had to assemble.

In her “this is too complicated, just kill them now since you already killed them when you stole them from their mother” attitude, she handed over the bag to me and attempted to explain how to fill the syringe, and to make sure I poked a hole in the nipple but not too big but not too small. (Really, you couldn’t just do it for me and then show me how to do it since these animals need food now?!)

I said Thank You in the nicest way I could and left carrying my sad kitten-filled cardboard box with my green corduroy jacket hanging out of it and traipsed back to the truck where I had a full meltdown. Snot, phlegm, tears, and all the while wondering what the hell had happened to the box of Kleenex I once I had in the truck.

Had I just killed these kittens? Every instinct in my body was telling me they had no mother and they would have died had I –or someone else—not come upon soon. I was doing the right thing. So why wasn’t this easy?

The Humane Society had given me a list of the area animal shelters so I called the next nearest one. The kind recipient of my tearful, sobbing story informed me that they only took in animals from the shelters, not from the public. But I should try the San Francisco SPCA. Maybe they would help. Maybe. No guarantees.

I called the number she gave me and then told my sob story once again. The woman explained that I needed an appointment to surrender an animal, but sometimes—sometimes—they make exceptions for emergencies. My box of unweaned kittens and my quickly approaching departure from the area certainly screamed emergency, but she made no guarantee. I had an hour and half before they closed for the day to make it the 30 miles north to see if they’d help.

I cried along the way and called a friend to put out the word online, seeking help from anywhere. Meanwhile I tried to assure the kittens that I was doing my best, and was trying to help them. San Francisco SPCA also had a nursery and people who could bottle feed. If they couldn’t take these kids, maybe someone there would be kind enough to teach me—actually show me—how to bottle-feed them for the next eight weeks.

I wasn’t a homeless dog or cat, but I realized how traumatized I had been by being at the shelter. I walked in, box of kittens in hand, expecting the very worse. I was still crying. Everyone wanted these guys dead—everyone but me. I would be turned away again, wouldn’t I? Turned way when I needed help to help these souls.

Like so many homeless and abandoned animals who have been lucky enough to wind up at the San Francisco SPCA, I was immediately welcomed in, shown a smile, and given an escort who would bring me to the vet clinic. I was assured that my charges would receive medical attention, be assessed, and that I would be given options. Maybe a rescue could take them, or the SF SPCA themselves, or Animal Control... or other options. But first order of business was to get these kids looked at and get them fed.

Me and my box o’kittens were shown to an exam room where Megan, my first escort handed me off to Laura, a vet tech. Laura asked for their story as she picked up each one and gave them a once over. She was pleasant and assured me that if they weren’t in a pile, and given that they were scattered, they probably were tossed on the side of the road by a human or abandoned by their mother. I had not unwittingly stolen them from their mother.

As for the little guy I worried most about, Laura worried as well. She called in a veterinarian who also smiled and was pleasant and whose mission was to save animals, not kill them. Laura bottle-fed the one grey and the two striped kittens in turn and they took the bottle well. No syringe and nipple nonsense; just a simple bottle she had brought out from the back.

The vet assessed the little one who was almost completely unresponsive. The way his head moved, his inability to get his legs beneath him—something was clearly wrong. We all knew it.

“Do you think it’s genetic or a trauma?” I asked.

The vet looked at Laura. “He’s hurt himself,” she said simply and yet I felt like there was much more she wasn’t saying. She ran her finger along his spine and as she reached the middle, he moaned.

“Yeah, he’s not...” she shook her head. “I think it’s in his best interest, and what is most humane is to let him go, to euthanize him.”

I nodded. “I sorta figured it would come to that. I thought he was dead when I found him. I agree with you. He shouldn’t be in pain.”

“Okay. I can do it right now,” she said and then stepped back a moment so I could say goodbye.

I leaned in to the little guy and whispered, “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you. I’m so sorry.”

The tears began for the first time since I had arrived here in this caring place, but I was at peace with the decision. Laura looked at me and said kindly, “It’s better to do it now then to try to feed him for three days and then do it anyway. This is only a couple hours of attachment. Three days of bottle-feeding...”

She was right. He didn’t take to the bottle. He couldn’t suckle. He would die of starvation. It was best that he went peacefully.

As for the other three, they suckled, and then crawled back up inside my jacket in the box. I asked Laura if she could show me how to bottle-feed as she seemed so good at it.

“What? No. You’re leaving for LA tomorrow. How are you going to do that? We’ll take them.”

“But will they be euthanized?”

Despite all I had experienced here, I was still suspicious—what if this was a front and they still killed them anyway?

“As long as they stay healthy and keep weaning, No. In four weeks we can test them for various things to make sure they don’t have any sort of fatal disease, but for now they’re safe. I’ll find a foster for them, but tonight they’ll come home with me.”

“Really?” This all seemed too good to be true, a polar opposite of the shelter experience only an hour before.

“I’m bottle-feeding another one, so what’s three more?” she said with a shrug and a smile.

“Oh wow. Thank you so much. Thank you, thank you,” I said.

“Well thank YOU for saving them,” she said. “If you hadn’t had walked along and found them, they probably wouldn’t have made it.”

The three remaining musketeers were gently lifted out of my jacket-lined box and into a cat carrier. Laura lovingly looked at them through the crate door.

“They’ll be fine. They seem strong and healthy.”

“Will you keep me updated? I’m involved now. I can’t just turn away.”

She smiled and nodded and we exchanged information. She promised to email me or call me to let me know how they were doing. I thanked her once more and she thanked me. I then walked out to give a donation to the place that took these kittens – and me – in, when the municipal shelter wouldn’t.

Laura was good on her promise and I received an update Monday morning:

... They are feisty and seem to be growing well. I actually found placement for them in another rescue. One of my good friends and co-worker, Amber Holly, has been running a special needs kitten rescue for the last 10 years. She mainly focuses on the tiny bottle babies and ones with trauma or special needs...Her rescue is called “Saving Grace Rescue” and they do amazing things. So your kittens will be taken care of and adopted out through Saving Grace Rescue.... She currently has 2 12-day old kittens and your 3 3-day old kittens. It turns out that if their umbilical cord is still attached (which yours had) they are only 1-2 days old. So, thank you again for saving them, they would not have made it if you were not walking there at that time.

Only 1 or 2 days old. Brand spanking new. The youngest charges to grace my passenger seat, and the very first felines. I feel oddly connected to these three, especially the loudmouth explorer who had caught my attention. Have you turned Cat on us, you ask? Will we be reading tales of transporting cats now?

Probably not, but an animal in need is an animal need, and I will never refuse them.

If you want to follow these little ones’ journey as they grow, and you’re a member of Facebook, please “Like” Saving Grace’s Facebook page. Holly takes way better pictures than me.

You can also donate (not just monetary amounts but items from her Amazon wishlist) to her cause through her website: www.savinggracerescue.com, and/or support the San Francisco SPCA.

Our municipal shelters need our help. They are community institutions, but without community involvement, people like me and souls like these kittens are turned away. Going on the Peninsula Humane Society’s website I found their directly worded stance on unweaned kittens: that the best chance they have of living is if YOU take care of them, not take them to a shelter. The honesty is nice, but wouldn’t it be better if it was a call to arms: to demand spay & neuter and Trap & Neuter programs? To ask for volunteers? To have bottle-feeding classes for the public? Our local animal shelters are OURS. We need to care for them, so they can care for us, along with those we hold dearest to our hearts.

Please support your local shelter. Make every shelter experience in America be like what I experienced at the San Francisco SPCA. Thank you Megan, Laura, Holly, the San Francisco SPCA, and every human who comes to the aid of another soul in need.