I’m a cheapskate, so I tend to resort to DIY on most things. I usually look at the price tag and hoot, “I can make this myself!” This means that my life brims with homemade and makeshift items because I’m usually reluctant to pay.
My DIY attempts have had varying results. Some have been resounding successes; others have been adequate; and a few have been flops (also resounding). My most grandiose effort probably involves the multilevel cat condo I had made for the cats. While usable, it looked very ghetto. It also didn’t last very long.
My other DIY efforts of note also involve the cats. Since I don’t always have the funds for vet care, I tend to DIY treatment when I can. The following is a related anecdote that attests to this. It was first published on Medium, which I’ve since quit, so I’ll be reposting it here.
Siding with a Scrappy Runt and Beating Nature
How could we abandon a minuscule “undercat” with a big spirit? We couldn’t.
image created using Canva
“Mom!” My daughter Midge came hurrying in after feeding the outside cats. “I think there’s something wrong with one of the kittens!”
Without a second bidding, I slipped into my Crocs and dashed to the corner of the porch where one of our outside cats was nesting with her new brood.
We didn’t actually own outside cats. They were stray or neighborhood cats that regularly visited us because we were suckers and believed them every time they professed to be hungry. They didn’t belong to us. We couldn’t formally adopt them because we already had seven inside cats, all very territorial. They would calmly watch the outdoor cats preen and parade outside, but they hissed and yowled if the latter got too close.
We did have an anomaly. They grudgingly accepted the cat who went and had her kittens underneath our car. It wasn’t a safe place. It could also puddle when it rained. Long story short, we got a box lined with a towel for the new mom and her babies, and moved them to the inner corner of our porch.
The queen in question was Yardi B, thus dubbed for her frequent presence in our yard. She had three surviving kittens in her litter, two black and white ones who took after their suspected sire, another outside cat we called Poirot for the mustache-like marking on his face. The third one was a calico like Yardi B.
It was about a month in and the kittens were starting to explore outside the box. Something became very clear about the calico.
“She’s only half the size of the other two,” Midge whispered, as though the kitten or Yardi B could hear and be offended.
But there really was no denying her size.
“I think she’s a bona fide runt,” I replied in just as low a voice.
We crouched next to each other, inspecting the kitten who was greedily feeding, taking her chance while the other two were wrestling outside the box.
Yardi B meowed indignantly at us. Nursing was a private affair and we were intruding.
Midge and I backed away to keep the peace. The protective mother had already tried to move her brood a few times, but we always managed to lure her back with a new box and a fresh towel. As long as we left them alone, she had no issues with staying on the porch.
With our budget not quite equal to a vet consultation, my daughter and I read what we could about runts and monitored the tiny calico’s progress. She seemed weaker, but she was scrappy. She fought to get her feed and she gamely took on her siblings’ roughhousing. She got pretty banged up, but she seemed to take everything in stride.
And then, one morning, I found her lying on her side unable to get up.
It was my turn now to yell into the house, “Midge! There’s something wrong with the kitten!”
My daughter knew which kitten and came flying out of the house.
Using paper towels lest my scent got on the kitten and caused her mother to abandon her, I picked up the kitten and placed her strategically against Yardi B’s tummy.
Yardi B sniffed her own baby, gave her a tentative lick and then got up and walked out of the box.
The kitten weakly floundered. We attempted several more times to get Yardi B to take care of her kitten, but she wasn’t interested.
Midge berated the seemingly unfeeling mother while I took to Google once again.
It didn’t look good. Yardi B had pretty much dismissed the kitten as a goner and had abandoned her. The mom instinctively knew that the poor thing was failing.
Not equipped with such instincts ourselves, Midge and I resolved to help the kitten survive.
We took her inside, got her a shoebox that we lined with a scrap of thick fleece. We made sure she was warm and safe and prepared to feed her.
“Good thing we still have kitten formula!” Midge eagerly rooted through the cupboards and found it. Upon glancing at the packaging though, she noted that it was already past its expiration date.
She and I turned back to Google.
“Here’s a recipe that asks for stuff we already have!”
Following that recipe, we mixed a concoction of whole milk, olive oil, raw egg, wet cat food, and pediatric vitamins. We were finally ready to feed the kitten.
Wielding a syringe with one hand, I cradled the kitten like a baby with the opposite hand. Then I started trying to inject the makeshift formula into her mouth.
Trying is the operative word.
“Open up, bubba!”
The kitten needed a lot of coaxing to take the milk. She firmly refused to open her mouth.
I was just as stubborn though. A veteran of getting kids and cats to take their medicine, I had a few tricks up my sleeve.
Sure enough, feeding through the side of her mouth got the stuff in. For a couple of hours, Midge and I took turns feeding her, stimulating her tush, stroking her, and just generally loving on her.
Finally, she was feeding and getting up. She wobbled, but she was up! In another minute, she was restless and trying to look for a way out of the box.
“Maybe we should bring her back to Yardi B now,” I said.
Yardi B welcomed her much healthier kitten back, mewling and licking her with enthusiasm.
The little thing lapped up the loving and started running with her litter mates. It was awesome to see her thriving.
But again, she was really getting pummeled. I picked her up and took her back to her mother, but she just eagerly ran back to her siblings, who then proceeded to trounce her further.
I couldn’t stand here all day, stopping the kitten just this short of being flattened.
But she seems so happy! my mind argued. What to do!?
We were at a loss, so I posted about the situation in my Crazy Cat Lady group. Like anybody who had dared to reveal anything personal online, I was attacked for all the things I had apparently been doing wrong, starting with interfering.
The animals operate on their instincts. The calico would ideally know when to take herself out of a dangerous situation, and the other kittens would know to be gentler with her. In any case, it’s survival of the fittest. Even her mother knew that she couldn’t make it.
I read the comments and then watched as a much bigger kitten bit and stomped on the kitten.
Midge hurriedly separated the kittens and brought the runt back inside the house.
“Survival of the fittest, my foot! Right now, I only care about the survival of the littlest!”
My sentiments exactly.
If that kitten was to survive, she had to be coddled. She had to be an indoor cat with humans mothering her.
Nature had decided its fate, but we were stepping in.
“Let’s call her Rocky because she’s a fighter.”
“Short for Raquel.”
I guess the cat distribution system had struck again.
…Hi! I’m Ivy, a writer who loves cats (or a cat lover who writes). I cover other topics, but I do tend to go on and on about cats. You can read more of my cat anecdotes over at This Small Life.
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