brace yerselves

I've been getting a lot of inquiries about the fate of my runt, my failing foster kitten, and no, it's not a case of "no news is good news." He didn't make it, and I have been stalling on writing here because I felt guilty about having gotten this blog's (smallish, but devoted) readership emotionally involved with him.

Things go in waves in the feral kitten population of San Francisco. We see the same things over and over again in a season. Two years ago, it was the year of Incredibly Stubborn Fleas, where pet stores were selling out of Advantage because the fleas just wouldn't die, and it was also an epic year for ringworm. Last year, it was calicivirus: kitten after kitten came down with that weirdest of feline diseases, which usually starts with a swollen front paw and a limp. There was the season when there were so many eye infections that there was a shortage of the topical eye medication we use, and people were being solicited to bring it back from Mexico. This year, six or seven kittens died in one week, and their last days followed the same pattern. The kitten crashed (we call a state of near-death "crashing", which is unmistakable. Kittens go into shock and lie in strange postures, stiff and contorted, with low body temperatures), was revived, crashed again on the second day, was revived again, and then died on the third day.

This kitten had been separated from his mother at only about four days of age, so his survival was always in question. I'm trying to focus on my success stories: the kitten's tiny, frail brother is still alive, and he ate independently yesterday for the very first time (I've had him for nearly two weeks, and I've been force feeding him as I tried to wean him from the bottle, and FINALLY now he will eat by himself, but only if I stay by his side. If I leave, he stops eating). Also, one of my biggest success stories ever, the runt from my first litter of the season, now weighs 2 pounds and will go up for adoption this weekend. She was a poor eater and chronically dehydrated, so for about three weeks I force-fed her and gave her subcutaneous fluids several times a day. This saved her life, and now she is perfect: an uncommonly beautiful, friendly and healthy kitten who would be a joy in any home.

The first couple of years I fostered kittens, I blamed myself and felt like a cat murderer any time I lost a kitten. But now, I know what I'm doing for the most part. I know a lot about ringworm, calicivirus, and kitten diarrhea. If something goes wrong with one of my kittens, I can often treat it myself successfully without involving a vet (I have a supply of the most commmonly prescribed medications, which I get replenished from my rescue program). Sometimes kittens have crashed and come very close to dying, and I have been able to save their lives. This time, I couldn't.

The head of my foster program has a saying: "There's a reason cats have more than one in a litter." Not all kittens survive. I'm very sorry my little gray feral kitten didn't live; he was a good kitten. On his last night, I had the feeling he wasn't going to make it. That evening I let him doze on my chest for hours, and I made him a separate bed so the other, more vigorous kittens wouldn't trouble him. I got up at 3 AM to check on him, but he had already shuffled off this mortal coil.

Nature can be harsh to little animals. Last year, my rescue program saved about 500 feral kittens, but we can't save them all, alas. RIP little gray feral kitten; I wish you could have lived longer.