Warning: this post is All-Nelson-All-The-Time. If we are FaceBook friends, you may well have seen most of these photos already. š
When last I wrote, three weeks ago, I imagined writing the next letter about language and the subtleties of English spoken in various countries, and particularly about the significant differences in structure and meaning of language here in Barbados.
However, āthe best laid plans of mice and menā¦ā Speaking of mice, I believe I have spoken about how most Bajans tend to think of cats as vermin catchers and not as house-dwelling/on-the-bed-sleeping companions. I have shared photos of, and written about, the Garrison kitties, their love of sardines, and the tough lives they live dodging huge horses, big vehicles, and tough men. I have always resisted bringing them home to the farm as I believed I would be condemning them to an early demise given our active horses, predatory dogs, and close proximity to a busy and narrow major road.
Nelson, however, had other ideas. How a six-week-old kitty came to the farm to live with us is unknown. What is acknowledged is that John had heard about a mewling sound near the fowl pens, spotted a caramel-coloured tail, yanked on said tail and came up with a flea-infested, skin-and-bones, tiny kitten. Presented with a dirty little boy, weighing less than a cup of tea, I did the only sensible thing: kissed and hugged him, opened a can of sardines, and started mothering. He was a jittery little dudeāa Nervous Nellie if you will, hence his nameāand I set about closing windows and doors of the house so that he would not encounter our big dogs, Brutus and Amber.
He made a beeline for the rough, old couch in one corner of the drawing room and quickly found his way into the inner workings of the pull-out bed. Here he was safe from everything and everyone, including us. No amount of tantalizing snacks or cajoling talk would bring him out. We figured hunger would do that job and, eventually, retired for the night.
In the morning, he found his way to our bedroom and announced himself.
He needed to pee and didnāt know where to go. I found an old dishpan, John brought up some sand from the pool pump, and we set him up. Beyond the need for nourishment to go in and out of his tiny body, we were not ready to address his play-and-learn needs. Ta Da! The internet! Truly, kitty videos interested him far more than any other offerings we could make.
The aforementioned fleas needed to be dispatched and the ensuing flea-shampoo bath launched a tirade of cat-cussing and roof-raising howls, claws fully extended. Heart racing, his razor-blade teeth and claws hard at work, Nelsonās tiny, skinny body was now exposed as his fur was soaked and rumpled by the warm water. He weighed under a pound.
After being promised kitty videos on YouTube, he finally collapsed into a deep sleep on my lacerated arm while I began to edit the hundreds of photos I had taken of him in the three days he had lived with us (Iām not an obsessive photographer, noā¦not I! š).
Cleaner than before, he still wasnāt rid of his fleas and I would have to take more invasive action. Q-tips and almond oil to the rescue! Heās all ears.
He has three favourite places to nap: my lap, behind me on my office chair, and at the inner elbow of Johnās right arm. He has abandoned the pull-out couch as sanctuary unless there are dogs too close by.
We can not know how long this happy-cat story will last but we will do our utmost to allow him to grow into a fine feline. Heās already seen the vet and she pronounced him āutterly beautifulā as she prodded, probed, and weighed him (two whole pounds). During the 10-minute car ride to the vetās he was completely silent; while we waited for an hour under the trees in the parking lot, he uttered not one peep. It occurred to me that he had likely been in a car before and that scary times had ensuedāwhat had he survived on between the mewling heard by the grooms on the Thursday and the fowl pen encounter with John on the Saturday? He was lucky not to have been attacked by the local monkeys or our big dogs.
On the way home from the vetās he howled in the language of his people, giving full voice to fear, indignation, angst, and anger while doing backflips inside his carrier. I kept my eyes on the potholes, big trucks, and racing ZRs (local vans/mini buses) all the while singing and howling in sympathy with Nelson. I assured him that āwe would soon reach.ā Once home, he bounded for my office chair and turned himself into a cream donut.
Thereās much more to this āNew Lifeā, of course. More next time.
Happy Yuletide!
Danielle