Born under a car
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Our adventure in becoming foster parents to three newborn kittens began with finding one on the driveway of my sister-in-law's house in Green Cove Springs, Fla.
Where did it come from? Where was the mother cat? Were there other kittens, and if so, where were they?
Lindy said the mother probably was a black feral cat she had seen hiding in the bushes.
Finn, as he was soon to be named, has black fur and a single white stripe down the center of his forehead. He looks like a baby skunk. More like a bedraggled rat, really, a pitiful thing, one day old, eyes closed, crying as he tried to crawl, dragging his shriveled umbilical cord.
He didn't look much like a hero, but he was.
We didn't have the mother cat, but we did have my wife, who as a retired veterinarian knew what to do. Off they went to the pet supply for newborn kitty formula. Honey mixed up a tiny batch, put it in a plastic baggie and cut off a bit of corner for a nipple.
Finn was not happy with the jerry-rig but did drink some.
Honey's sister Lindy normally keeps her car in the garage. She had not the night before because she had an early call at the courthouse for possible jury duty. She parked her car out behind ours so we could remain abed.
After satisfying the jury obligation, Lindy and my wife drove all over town on errands, begging stores (and raiding their dumpsters) for cardboard boxes for packing, then ferrying me from and to a tire shop.
After finding the solo kitten, the women went to a vet's office, where my wife's recitation of the Finn story earned her a gratis handful of plastic syringes with which to feed him.
We had planned an afternoon visit Lindy's daughter's new home outside town for a swim party. We went in two cars, taking the kitten with us. Lindy's grandson Sawyer named him Finn.
Returning around dinnertime, Lindy pulled her car into the garage. She and Honey immediately heard faint but insistent mewling, and it wasn't from Finn.
Lindy had packed boxes lining the walls of the garage in preparation for a move. We searched among boxes, listening intently, but wherever we were, the cries seemed to come from somewhere else.
Finally Lindy said, "I think they're in my car!"
And so they were, somewhere in the undercarriage. One splashboard allowed a hole big enough for a cat. After much discussion, we decided to leave the car out overnight in hopes the mother car would return, feed them and hopefully carry them away.
At midnight Lindy's daughter called to say their doorbell camera had just shown a black cat running outside. Zounds! The mother cat must have gotten in under the car to feed her kittens, and we inadvertently hauled her out of town.
We dressed, got Finn and jumped in cars to take kittens to momma. However, when Lindy started her car she heard a commotion underneath and saw the black cat running off. Zounds again! Back to Plan A, parking the car and hoping for mother to return.
We left bits of cheese, along with Finn covered in a cardboard box. Around 2 a.m. a worried Honey checked on Finn, found him chilled and brought him in the house.
Next morning the cheese was gone, the kits were mewling, and it looked like we would have to have the undercarriage torn apart to get them out. In desperation I wiggled my head and shoulders under the car, peered through a small gap above a flexible splash board and saw the head of a kitten. It was a girl who would be named Fanny. Behind her was Floyd. I used a kitchen spatula to coax him out.
The kittens were rescued, but who would foster them? The local humane society and a cat rescue agency were all out of foster parents because kitten season was well underway in Florida.
So, for past nine days, driving up from Florida with stops in Georgia and Alabama, my wife fed these little kittens every two to three hours, day and night. At a rest stop in West Virginia we found a promised home for Finn when a girl from Butler, Pa., saw Honey feeding him on the hood of the car.
Back home, Honey took them to her book store, where a woman cried and begged for Floyd because her brown tabby was lost. Fanny, the sweet one and first to purr, may or may not still be up for grabs.
Their eyes are open. They try to play, charm everyone they meet, and sleep most of the time.
Honey now refers to them as "the kids." She'll be taking care of them yet for weeks until they can eat solid food.
We don't know if in all that driving around, 60 miles or so, bouncing around in the undercarriage, whether any kittens fell out and were lost. What we do know is that Finn, mere hours after his birth, found the strength to crawl out and go for help, saving his brother, sister and self.
The unlikeliest of heroes, but a true one.
Fred Miller's third book of stories, "A Dead Carp on Shadyside Ave." is $10 (cheap!) and available locally at Calcutta Giant Eagle, Pottery City Antique Mall, Museum of Ceramics, Frank's Pastries, Davis Bros. Pharmacies, and the Old Ft. Steuben gift shop.