17. Nadia
17
NADIA
O n Saturday morning, Dalton stumbles into the apartment after his shift, dead on his feet.
I’m eating yogurt at the bar, and my eyebrows lift as I watch him drag himself to the dresser for clothes. He usually showers first thing when he gets in. “Rougher night than usual?”
“Yeah. Ten-car pileup. We got about half of the casualties.”
My stomach turns. “That’s terrible.”
“It was grim.” His expression tells me that not everybody made it.
“I’m so sorry, Dalton. Is that the hardest part of the job?”
“Telling family that we failed to save someone they love? Might be. I don’t do that part yet, but I am expected to be in the room.”
I set down my spoon. “That’s hard.”
He leans against the wall by the bathroom door. “In the moment of trying to help them, you don’t think about it. You’re following a protocol. But when that adrenaline drops…” He runs his hand over his eyes.
“Get a shower. Then some sleep. I’m going to walk the neighborhood since it’s not as hot today.”
He nods. “Good. Sunshine helps.” He gives a lopsided half-smile, even if the pain is still in his eyes. “It’s scientifically proven.” There’s a catch in the last word, as if the effort of being even slightly funny is too much.
Cattarina comes out from under the bed and stands a few feet away. Maybe she senses his distress.
“Look at that,” he says. “I might be winning her over.”
“You might.”
He heads into the bathroom. I toss my yogurt container and bend to pet Cattarina. “You should be friendly with Dalton. He’s one of the good ones.”
She lifts her nose so I can scratch under her chin. “I’ll be back in a while.”
The day is bright and sunshiny. My ponytail swishes against my back as I take off down the street. I planned to listen to an audiobook, but there are so many people about, watering grass, walking their dogs, and being friendly that I decide to live in the moment, waving and saying hello.
I reach a pocket park and cut across it, enjoying the trees and the squeak of playground equipment, empty at this hour but shifting in the breeze.
About two-thirds of the way through the park, at a cluster of scraggly bushes, I hear a strange sound. Something about it makes me stop instantly.
Is that a kid crying? I look around. The swings and slide are unoccupied. There’s nobody in my immediate vicinity.
I stay still, listening.
Then I hear it again. Was it a cat?
The trees rustle overhead, and I look up. There’s nothing I can see. No stranded kitty. I walk among the trunks, staring into the branches.
Then I hear it again, low, not high. It’s on the ground.
There must be a cat in this thatch of brush.
I walk around it. There are ten or so bushes growing wild in a dip in the ground. Along the edge are piles of trapped leaves and other debris that blew through the park and got stuck in the low limbs.
I peer into the thicket, but I can’t see anything.
The sound comes again, more plaintive this time, as if this cat knows I’m close.
Is it lost? Hurt? Maybe it will have tags or a chip. I can take it to a veterinarian and they can scan it.
If it will let me catch it.
Or it could be a stray.
When I worked at the rescue, we got cats in all sorts of situations. Lost, abandoned, or just plain born into street life. I’m not sure about the networks here in LA, but I bet there are a lot. Animal lovers are everywhere.
I fostered several kitten litters in the summers I was in grad school, when my course load was light and I could manage them. They take an incredible amount of care.
But one stray cat is easy.
Catching it, not so much.
I think I spot a movement deep in the bushes. I get down on my knees and begin parting the leaves.
I know I’m close when I hear a faint hiss.
“It’s okay, sweet baby,” I say. “You’re all right.”
Sticks catch in my hair as I crawl deeper into the bramble. My arms get scratched, but I persist. If the cat isn’t running, it might be hurt.
There’s space low to the ground beneath the biggest bushes. The earth gets damp, which is probably why they grow so well.
Then I spot two gleaming eyes. The cat is young, not even a year old. Her back is to me, showing off pretty gray stripes along her coal black fur. Her head twists to watch me warily.
“Hey,” I say. “Will you come with me?” I wish I had treats or any kind of food, but naturally I left with only my phone. I wasn’t expecting a kitty rescue. I reach out and stroke the matted fur.
My heart catches at how thin this sweet cat is. Her eyes close for a minute. She’s breathing shallowly, like it’s hard.
Then I hear a soft mew.
Wait. That wasn’t her. I was watching.
Then another.
Oh, no. Are there kittens?
I keep petting her softly. I can’t get any closer with my head due to how thick the branches are. But I reach with my hand over her belly to the other side.
I feel a tiny head. Then another. Then another.
It’s a litter.
“Poor baby! You’re just a baby yourself!”
I snag one of the kittens and carefully lift it to the mother cat’s back to assess its age. The mother drops her head to her paws, as if she doesn’t have the energy to fight me over taking one.
The kitten’s eyes are open, but it’s undersized. Four weeks, I’d guess, even though it’s so light that it feels like a bundle of feathers.
I set it back down. These kittens won’t survive much longer. The mother is not well.
I press my hand to her belly. Her respiration is labored and fast. I feel around her neck. No collar or any impression that there ever was one. She is a stray that got pregnant the moment she matured. Kittens can go into their first heat at four or five months old.
Good gracious.
How do I get them out?
I crawl backward out of the bushes. I’m not far from home, but I can’t carry a litter of kittens in my arms. I need something.
The park is empty this early. A lone jogger passes through the center.
What do I do?
Tears smart in my eyes. I could run home and get Cattarina’s crate. I keep it in the back of my Jeep. Then I could take them to a vet.
Except it’s Saturday. Only the emergency care would be open.
I can call them. Or a rescue. That would be better.
But I have to get them out of the bushes. Something tells me this is urgent for the mother.
I head back through the park to go home, but then I spot a trash can spilling over. Beside it is a box!
My feet push into a jog. The box is mostly empty, a bit of extra trash in it. I smoosh the trash down into the bin and take the box. I’ll carry them home in this. Then I can stabilize them while I call around.
Now to get them out.
I walk to the bushes again and find another way with more space between the ground and lower branches. I set the box beside me and army-crawl in the dirt.
I’m approaching the kitten side this time, and I count four. Mama’s head is down. She doesn’t even bother to hiss.
I can only use one hand to get a kitten, as I need the other to push my way out again, but I get the first one into the box.
Then I’m back in. I hold two of them together. They are so small and weak.
I pause for a second as I place them in the box. Prepare yourself, Nadia. It’s possible they won’t make it. Be ready.
My lips press together as I go back in for the fourth kitten. The mother cat seems to realize that I’ve taken them and lifts her head to hiss at me again.
“I’ve got you, Mama,” I tell her. “Don’t worry.”
I move the last kitten to the box. Now for the hard part. She might get a spike of energy when I try to move her. Or if she’s hurt, that could make her fight.
I go back in. “Please don’t bite me,” I tell her. “I’m trying to help.”
When I’m close to her again, I stroke her fur. “We’re going to do this together, okay, Mama? We’ll get you back with your kittens.”
The back of my hand slides through mud and gunk as it moves beneath her. This is gross.
But she doesn’t protest. I move my other hand beneath her head. She’s so weak. I pull her close to my chest so I can hold her in place as I crawl backward.
I’m sure I look ridiculous coming out from beneath the bushes, my knees, shirt, and elbows covered in mud, twigs in my hair, and a scrawny pile of matted fur in my arms.
But I get her out.
The kittens are balled together, two of them mewing pitifully. The others seem too weak to even cry.
I set the mother next to them and arrange them snugly together.
Now to get them home.
I walk as quickly as I can without jostling them. When I reach our parking lot, I go even faster. The mother cat seems to stare into nothingness and I’m afraid that the act of moving her was already too much.
A sob catches in my throat as I madly burst through the door of the apartment and flip on the lights.
I’ve forgotten about Dalton. He’s on the bed, the blackout curtains drawn. “What’s going on?” he asks.
“I think she died on the way here!” I cry, setting the box on the carpet and falling to my knees.
Dalton scrambles out of the bed. “Who?”
“Mama cat!” I lift her from the box. She’s listless and unmoving. “Oh, no!”
I curl her into my body, trying to feel to see if she’s breathing or if she has a heartbeat. “I have to help her!”
Dalton kneels next to me. “Set her on the carpet.”
“Can you help her?”
“I’m not a veterinarian, but I’ll try. Do you have something that can hydrate her? Like a medicine plunger or turkey baster?”
“I have a liquid syringe from the cold medicine.”
“Make sure it’s clean and bring it with some water.”
I race to the kitchen to gather those things. When I come back, Dalton is pressing fingers against her chest. “Okay, she has a heartbeat. Give me the water.”
He draws some water into the plunger and carefully puts it in her mouth. “Mix some of Cattarina’s wet food with water to make a thin paste and get a towel.”
I hurry to get those as well.
When I return, he’s massaging her chest and body. “Come on, kitty. Take in some water.” He gives her more.
“Should I wrap her in the towel?”
“Yes. The idea is to make her body have to do as little as possible. It’s what we do to humans.”
He takes the watered-down paste and draws some into the syringe. “You look after the kittens. We need to warm up the towels.”
“I have the heating pad I used with the rescues.”
“Perfect.”
I drag one of my suitcases out, glad I held on to a few things from my rescue days. I find the heating pad and a small circular lamb’s wool cushion I would put on top of it.
I plug it into the wall near the box.
“Is she responding?” I ask, crawling back to the mother cat.
Dalton cradles her body wrapped in the towel. “She swallowed. That’s a good sign. We’ll warm her up and see if she’ll respond. We’ll need to get her to a vet.”
“I’ll start calling.”
I drag my phone out of the pocket of my shorts and start Googling emergency vets.
“There she goes,” Dalton says, and I look up.
Mama cat licks the end of the syringe. He squirts out a little more.
“That’s the biggest hurdle,” he says. “Stabilizing them for the next step.”
“Same as cats as in humans?”
He nods. “She’s coming around.” He holds on to her and peers into the box. “When I think I can set her down, I’ll look at the others, but they are all wiggling.”
I place the first call, then move the box closer to the wall socket so I can slide the warming cushion beneath the litter. They all look up at me and cry with faint mews. They’re all mewing. My eyes smart with tears.
A voice comes on the line. “SoCal Emergency Pet Care, how can I help you?”
As I explain the situation to the woman, I glance up at Dalton. He’s watching the mother cat as he slowly feeds her watered-down food. He’s so intent on her, as if saving her can somehow make this hard day better than it was.
And my heart definitely catches at the sight.