Adorable Teeny Tiny One day in the lunchroom where I worked, I learned that one of my co-workers volunteered as foster coordinator for Surrey’s animal shelter. When she learned about my love for cats, Christine encouraged me to consider fostering a kitten. In December, 2003, Christine called with the news that the shelter had just picked up an abandoned four-week-old kitten. She explained that socializing the kitten would be better in a home and would avoid a possibly traumatic stay among all the other shelter animals.
I prepared a room for the kitten and bought a new carrier. At the shelter, after signing a contract, the worker took my carrier to the back, returning with a beautiful black fur ball with tiny eyes in a tiny face huddled at the back of the carrier, which now looked enormous. They presented me with a bag of kitten food and some canned KMR, Kitten Meal Replacement that substitutes for mother’s milk. The kitten had a number but no name. I called her Tiny, sometimes Teeny Tiny, which suited her adorable features and darting movements. She was shy at first, but warmed up at feeding time. I would often find her squeezed behind an old stereo. As she got more comfortable, she would curl up on a scrap of fleece fabric at the foot of the bed. My two older cats were alert to the interloper. Ginger, my normally gregarious and adventurous calico, suddenly spent time hiding under the bed. She had been gaining weight, and I had hoped that playing with a kitten would get her moving more. After I spent more dedicated time with the adult cats, Ginger stopped hiding and both cats seemed happier. Gradually I began to let Tiny into the rest of the house while I watched closely. She wasn’t shy with the others. She would rush right up to Ginger, and either swat her in an invitation to wrestle, or try to get a drink from her ample belly. The elder female wasn’t amused by either. If Tiny continued to be aggressive despite my best efforts, I would again separate them. I had thought the introduction was gradual, but nowadays I would take it more slowly. Blackie, with soft medium-length ebony fur, was like an older version of Tiny. But he would hiss if Tiny came near, and would lick his lips as if his mouth were suddenly going dry. He never got used to Tiny's energetic forays around the house, racing past the other cats or suddenly stopping in front of them. Tiny played constantly in our times together. She loved chasing a strip of ribbon dangled in front of her, or a furry grey mouse that rattled when shaken. Another favourite toy was a plastic imitation golf ball that you could twist apart to fill with catnip. It was emptied in one of her volleys against the wall. The sounds of her tossing this ball could be heard throughout the house. She was also inventive. One day she reached into her litterbox and held in each paw an inch-sized ball formed from the clumping litter! While she was diligent about covering waste, there were usually one or two of these balls near the box on the newsprint. I grew very attached to my foster charge. Sometimes when the weather howled outside, I would wake up in the middle of the night. Ginger and Blackie would shift on the bed, and Tiny could hear our quiet movements. Her little mews beckoned me from the other room. Without turning on the light, I would sit on the rug just outside her open door, holding her. She lay nestled in my arms, purring her loud vocal contentment. Then I would lay her back down on her fleece, where she would remain as I shut the door. After four weeks, Tiny was deemed ready for adoption and I began to receive calls. Potential adopters would come to me pre-screened, but I had my own screening process. I wanted to know what type of home they lived in and who lived there, including any other animals. The first person who made an appointment to see Tiny had her heart set on a male as company for her resident cat, but I talked her into considering a female. The appointment time came and went. I looked at my little princess and thought, how sad, but clearly this person wasn’t the right match. I wondered how long it would take to find an adopter. It didn’t take long. The next family from nearby Delta, B.C., arrived right after we spoke on the phone. They preferred black cats with medium-length to long fur, both features that are not appreciated enough. Their own cat had died some months before. An adorable three-year-old girl and her young mother were smitten with Tiny. They completed the paperwork the next day at the shelter. That evening, we spent a half hour together, while they played with Tiny and I explained her current preferences and routines. Tiny seemed a bit shy again, but would play when coaxed. I gave the family her fleece fabric scrap, so she would have something with her own scent that reminded her of her territory. I also gave them her favourite grey mouse. The little girl’s uncle placed the mouse in the back of their carrier, with the fleece lining it, and Tiny went inside willingly. Then she looked so little and scared again in the carrier, mewing. I remembered how my friends and family had warned me it would be impossible to let her go. I knew that the purpose of fostering was good short-term care, not a permanent home, and that my home was not the place for her. But I felt torn when I saw her leaving. I didn’t want her to feel scared or hurt. And I would miss her rumbling purr and our late-night cuddle sessions. The next day, I called the family to see how Tiny was doing. They had spread her fleece at the foot of the bed, with her grey mouse. Tiny had slept there through the night, waking at 6 a.m. tossing the mouse around the room. I was relieved that she seemed to be adjusting well. Ginger and Blackie relaxed, having the full run of the house again. The plants could remain upright. My skin began to heal from scratches when Tiny hadn’t learned to keep her claws retracted in play or when she would leap on my back or the leg of my jeans. While it was a joy to have her, it was good to have some quiet time to enjoy my two cats on their own. It was one of my conditions of adoption to visit Tiny in her new home, which I did a week later. The little girl had renamed her Molly. I found her stretched out in front of the cozy fireplace. She had grown a little, but was still kittenish. Molly seemed a bit distant toward me, but chased a ribbon I pulled along the floor. At one point, the length of her warm tummy was stretched along my thigh. It was wonderful to see how well her new family was taking care of Molly. Her claws had been trimmed by a veterinarian, so she wasn’t as prickly. Planters were lined with aluminum foil to discourage her from a new habit of using the soil as a litterbox. Various toys were in sight, and Molly had the run of the house. I gave the family some catnip to sprinkle on her scratching post. I hugged Molly once more and walked to the door. When I turned around to say goodbye, there she was, coming down the stairs. She came right to the door. Although I believed it would be the last time I would see her, I was glad to have this chance to say goodbye. This time I didn’t cry. - Irene Plett Note: VOKRA doesn't recommend using clumping litter with kittens, as some have ingested it with life-threatening results. Topics: Fostering animals, kittens, cats, Kitten Meal Replacement (KMR), Tiny/Molly, Ginger, Blackie, Surrey, Delta
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