Piston is a year old now. Yes, time flies. I will never forget the morning I was lying in bed when the Old Feller came in with a small bundle up to his chest mumbling “Think this is yours.” There was a tiny kitten, only about four weeks old, hardly weaned and wanting his mum. Which is what we became.
I’m used to this. I think it was my destiny to be an adoptive mum because although not having a maternal bone in my body for human offspring, I cannot leave a baby animal if it needs me. When I worked in the vets and again in the zoo (yuk spit vomit) I always handled the babies who needed
rearing. I know how to be mummy bird to chicks, tap the side of their beak with the forceps to make them gape, make tsk tsk sounds (or squee if it’s an owl) and then deliver the morsel down the throat. Job’s a carrot!
Kittens were my speciality because I have a mahoosive bosom. No not to feed them, silly, my bra makes a perfect kitten-sling. They are warm and comfy up against body heat as they would be for many hours a day and I can get on with my own job when not feeding or cleaning them.
I admit the local shops got used to a paw suddenly appearing from my cleavage, followed by a tiny head making loud “feed me” sounds. Everyone was very nice about it, even if my boobs did occasionally smell a pit of cat poo.
If you think breast feeding on a bus is awkward, try seeing to a kitten’s bum after they have been fed. As mother would normally lick them to encourage defecation (I know the big words) you get a bit of rough towel, spit on it and rub vigorously at rear parts. They usually oblige almost instantly so have another bit of towel for them to go on if a litter tray is impossible.
Piston, of course, doesn’t need this any more. He took himself to the tray within a very short time to rapturous applause from Dad and me. He will never look adult. He still looks young. My lil Paddington (who sort of arrived in the surgery with an invisible “Please Look After This Cat” label on her) got to three years old without ever looking more than four months.
It’s not a job, it’s a vocation and whenever I think I’ll retire, them upstairs shove another one my way.