under the sink, then I add a bit of water to the milk bottle and put it back. I dash down into the cellar.
Heâs still breathing but sort of shudders at the end of each breath. His eyes are still closed.
There he was, standing up, trying to fight me, and dying right in front of my eyes. I hold him over the mayonnaise jar lid and try sticking his pink nose into the milk. He doesnât open his mouth, doesnât try to lick the milk. What happens is he breathes in some of it with his nostrils and sneezes. He shakes his head, sneezes again, but doesnât brush off his face the way cats do.
Now heâs limp in my hand again. I keep trying but heâs too far gone to drink. Heâs dying for sure. After all his struggle trying to stay alive, heâs going to die anyway.
I put him down on the cloth again and tuck him in behind the small bucket-a-day furnace so heâll be warm. I hear Mom walking around upstairs. I go out the cellar door, run down the alley, up Copely Road, then along Clover Lane and into our house from the front. I come in as if Iâve been playing outside in the street with the other kids. Momâs busy cleaning house so she doesnât notice me much. I run upstairs quietly and go into our bathroom. What I need is there. Itâs the only place I can think to find one. I used to have one in my chemistry set but it got broken.
I lift the Argyrol out of our medicine cabinet and unscrew the top. It has a rubber squeezer and an eye dropper that goes into the bottle. I put the Argyrol bottle back in the medicine cabinet and squeeze the rubber, washing the inside of the eye dropper, until it isnât brown any more.
When Iâm sure itâs clean, I dash downstairs, out the front door, around through the alley, and back in the cellar door. Iâm afraid the kittenâll be dead by the time I get there; but if I go right through the house, past Mom, sheâs liable to ask me what Iâm doing, where Iâm going, and I donât want to tell any lies. If there really is a devil in me, heâd just love to have me lying to my parents, especially about a cannibal cat. Thatâs the first time I begin to think that this cat might be a devil himself. I read one time in a book about Halloween how witchesâ cats had the devil in them. Itâd explain a lot of things about this cat, Mr. Harding, and me.
When I get there in the cellar, down on my knees, I pull Cannibal out from behind the bucket-a-day, half convinced heâll be dead, but heâs still breathing. I hold him in my hand, fill the eye dropper with milk and start squeezing it into his mouth.
First I try putting the point of the eye dropper right in the center under that slit in his nose, but the milk only comes flowing out and gets his chin all wet. Then I figure how to slip the point into the side corner of his mouth and squeeze it slowly. I begin to feel him swallowing and it all goes in if I do it very carefully. I sit there for a long time, slowly dripping in milk while he swallows. He still doesnât open his eyes. I slide him under the paint cloth and push the cloth back behind the bucket-a-day again. Iâve used all the milk.
I go upstairs directly this time. Mom is going shopping and tells me to watch Laurel till she gets back. Laurelâs jumping rope with some girls on the walk in front of our house. I tell Laurel to stay there till I come back.
This time I warm the milk in a pan, then go back into the cellar. It was hard getting the milk just warm enough and not too hot. I put a few drops of it on my tongue and it felt fine. Iâm hoping old Cannibal is still alive.
When I slide him out, he opens his eyes at me but doesnât try to get up. His eyes look almost as if theyâve been crying but it could be only all the milk I spilled on him. I try wiping him off, but itâs hard wiping off kitten fur, itâs so soft.
I pick him up without any trouble and begin
Heâs still breathing but sort of shudders at the end of each breath. His eyes are still closed.
There he was, standing up, trying to fight me, and dying right in front of my eyes. I hold him over the mayonnaise jar lid and try sticking his pink nose into the milk. He doesnât open his mouth, doesnât try to lick the milk. What happens is he breathes in some of it with his nostrils and sneezes. He shakes his head, sneezes again, but doesnât brush off his face the way cats do.
Now heâs limp in my hand again. I keep trying but heâs too far gone to drink. Heâs dying for sure. After all his struggle trying to stay alive, heâs going to die anyway.
I put him down on the cloth again and tuck him in behind the small bucket-a-day furnace so heâll be warm. I hear Mom walking around upstairs. I go out the cellar door, run down the alley, up Copely Road, then along Clover Lane and into our house from the front. I come in as if Iâve been playing outside in the street with the other kids. Momâs busy cleaning house so she doesnât notice me much. I run upstairs quietly and go into our bathroom. What I need is there. Itâs the only place I can think to find one. I used to have one in my chemistry set but it got broken.
I lift the Argyrol out of our medicine cabinet and unscrew the top. It has a rubber squeezer and an eye dropper that goes into the bottle. I put the Argyrol bottle back in the medicine cabinet and squeeze the rubber, washing the inside of the eye dropper, until it isnât brown any more.
When Iâm sure itâs clean, I dash downstairs, out the front door, around through the alley, and back in the cellar door. Iâm afraid the kittenâll be dead by the time I get there; but if I go right through the house, past Mom, sheâs liable to ask me what Iâm doing, where Iâm going, and I donât want to tell any lies. If there really is a devil in me, heâd just love to have me lying to my parents, especially about a cannibal cat. Thatâs the first time I begin to think that this cat might be a devil himself. I read one time in a book about Halloween how witchesâ cats had the devil in them. Itâd explain a lot of things about this cat, Mr. Harding, and me.
When I get there in the cellar, down on my knees, I pull Cannibal out from behind the bucket-a-day, half convinced heâll be dead, but heâs still breathing. I hold him in my hand, fill the eye dropper with milk and start squeezing it into his mouth.
First I try putting the point of the eye dropper right in the center under that slit in his nose, but the milk only comes flowing out and gets his chin all wet. Then I figure how to slip the point into the side corner of his mouth and squeeze it slowly. I begin to feel him swallowing and it all goes in if I do it very carefully. I sit there for a long time, slowly dripping in milk while he swallows. He still doesnât open his eyes. I slide him under the paint cloth and push the cloth back behind the bucket-a-day again. Iâve used all the milk.
I go upstairs directly this time. Mom is going shopping and tells me to watch Laurel till she gets back. Laurelâs jumping rope with some girls on the walk in front of our house. I tell Laurel to stay there till I come back.
This time I warm the milk in a pan, then go back into the cellar. It was hard getting the milk just warm enough and not too hot. I put a few drops of it on my tongue and it felt fine. Iâm hoping old Cannibal is still alive.
When I slide him out, he opens his eyes at me but doesnât try to get up. His eyes look almost as if theyâve been crying but it could be only all the milk I spilled on him. I try wiping him off, but itâs hard wiping off kitten fur, itâs so soft.
I pick him up without any trouble and begin
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