soon as that kitten sees me, he rears up on his hind legs and backs into the corner of the garage behind the nest. Heâs standing up there with his claws out and his eyes fastened on me like a lion or a bear. I sit down on the garage floor in a part where there isnât any grease and watch him. I also get to really look at him.
Heâs definitely like a burnt tiger except for not having a tail. There are darker stripes coming down between his ears, across his forehead, and between his eyes. There are also stripes going out from each of his eyes, almost like a raccoon, and there are dark drips coming down from the inside of his eyes right next to his nose. I canât tell for sure if these are real marks or only something like sleep that gets caught in the corner of your eyes.
His nose is pink on the end mostly but with some black parts on the top and outside. The bottom of his nose has a little slit in it to match his mouth and he has no lips. Whenever I move too fast, he opens his jaws wide and makes a hissing sound.
I keep calling this cat âhimâ but I donât really know. The kids in the neighborhood say itâs hard to tell a boy cat from a girl cat till theyâre grown up; then itâs easy. The tomcats have big nuts and the females a round pink hole under the tail.
This one has little sharp, white teeth and the inside of his mouth is pink in the front, the way you would expect, then it gets darker, almost blue or purple at the back of his tongue. When he opens his mouth to snarl, he tucks his tongue back away from his teeth; I never noticed that about cats before. But then I never really noticed much about cats; I donât think I even really like cats. I know they eat rats and mice but they also catch all the pigeons and sparrows. There are practically no birds in the alleys, only at the front, and then itâs mostly starlings.
But Iâm beginning to like this cat and Iâm becoming more and more convinced he ate his brothers and sisters. I figure heâd wait till they were all asleep then kill one by biting it on the neck or something and draining the blood. Probably the other kittens, when they were still alive, helped him eat them, too. Four would eat one, then three ate one, then two ate one, then this one ate the last other kitten, the black one thatâs only one paw and a tail now. It must have been awful to see. I wonder if they ate the meat and milk I brought or some other cat came in and ate it. I donât know for sure whether itâs true he ate his brothers and sisters but I decide to name him Cannibal.
I sit there a long time, watching, not thinking much, and then he begins to fall down. He isnât coming down on his four feet, heâs falling over sideways. He does this twice, then just lies there on his side, his thin stomach going in and out. His eyes are closed so I can sneak up on him. I wonder if I could pick him up now without getting bitten. Actually Iâve been too afraid to put my hand near him the last week, even though he isnât much bigger than a mouse. Heâs really like a miniature wildcat, not like a kitten at all, except heâs so tiny. I donât think heâs actually grown much since the first time I saw him. Only heâs opened his eyes, learned to growl and stand up. I havenât ever seen him walk. He just huddles in that bloody, messy nest or rears up in the corner behind it.
So, carefully, I put my hand under his tiny body and pick him up. Heâs limp and doesnât move. I see heâs unconscious and I get scared. I tuck him against my stomach and run out from the garage, up the alley to our place.
I go in the cellar and make a little bed for him with one of my dadâs clean paint rags, then sneak up the stairs. Mom must be upstairs in the bedrooms and I donât see Laurel. I open the icebox and get some milk. I pour this from the bottle into the lid of a mayonnaise jar Mom has stored
Heâs definitely like a burnt tiger except for not having a tail. There are darker stripes coming down between his ears, across his forehead, and between his eyes. There are also stripes going out from each of his eyes, almost like a raccoon, and there are dark drips coming down from the inside of his eyes right next to his nose. I canât tell for sure if these are real marks or only something like sleep that gets caught in the corner of your eyes.
His nose is pink on the end mostly but with some black parts on the top and outside. The bottom of his nose has a little slit in it to match his mouth and he has no lips. Whenever I move too fast, he opens his jaws wide and makes a hissing sound.
I keep calling this cat âhimâ but I donât really know. The kids in the neighborhood say itâs hard to tell a boy cat from a girl cat till theyâre grown up; then itâs easy. The tomcats have big nuts and the females a round pink hole under the tail.
This one has little sharp, white teeth and the inside of his mouth is pink in the front, the way you would expect, then it gets darker, almost blue or purple at the back of his tongue. When he opens his mouth to snarl, he tucks his tongue back away from his teeth; I never noticed that about cats before. But then I never really noticed much about cats; I donât think I even really like cats. I know they eat rats and mice but they also catch all the pigeons and sparrows. There are practically no birds in the alleys, only at the front, and then itâs mostly starlings.
But Iâm beginning to like this cat and Iâm becoming more and more convinced he ate his brothers and sisters. I figure heâd wait till they were all asleep then kill one by biting it on the neck or something and draining the blood. Probably the other kittens, when they were still alive, helped him eat them, too. Four would eat one, then three ate one, then two ate one, then this one ate the last other kitten, the black one thatâs only one paw and a tail now. It must have been awful to see. I wonder if they ate the meat and milk I brought or some other cat came in and ate it. I donât know for sure whether itâs true he ate his brothers and sisters but I decide to name him Cannibal.
I sit there a long time, watching, not thinking much, and then he begins to fall down. He isnât coming down on his four feet, heâs falling over sideways. He does this twice, then just lies there on his side, his thin stomach going in and out. His eyes are closed so I can sneak up on him. I wonder if I could pick him up now without getting bitten. Actually Iâve been too afraid to put my hand near him the last week, even though he isnât much bigger than a mouse. Heâs really like a miniature wildcat, not like a kitten at all, except heâs so tiny. I donât think heâs actually grown much since the first time I saw him. Only heâs opened his eyes, learned to growl and stand up. I havenât ever seen him walk. He just huddles in that bloody, messy nest or rears up in the corner behind it.
So, carefully, I put my hand under his tiny body and pick him up. Heâs limp and doesnât move. I see heâs unconscious and I get scared. I tuck him against my stomach and run out from the garage, up the alley to our place.
I go in the cellar and make a little bed for him with one of my dadâs clean paint rags, then sneak up the stairs. Mom must be upstairs in the bedrooms and I donât see Laurel. I open the icebox and get some milk. I pour this from the bottle into the lid of a mayonnaise jar Mom has stored
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