Page 57 of Hold the Pickle

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.

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