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Newborn kittens, found in the trash.
"They're probably going to die" you hear, on the phone.
"They're probably going to die anyway," you find yourself repeating, later, in explanation.
But because you have to, you add: "But we have to try, at least."
"What else is there to do?" you ask. "You can't just put them back in the trash."
They are, probably. Going to die. You think this as you hold them mewling in your hand. The thing is, though, you think, poking at a tiny mouth with an impossibly hopeless rubber nipple, it's not dead now.
No, this thing is very much alive, eyes sealed, suckling on the end of your finger. It presses a tiny paw (with slivers of claws) against your hand in an instinctual movement to knead and nurse. It is alive, so all you can do is try to keep it that way, for as long as you can.
Everyone warned, "Don't name them." As if naming them would give them a personality, as if the name would make them more alive than they already are, and hence harder to lose. But the truth is, naming doesn't give anything, it simply confirms what is already there. They already come with everything a name identifies. This one has stripes, that one a crooked, stumpy tail, and the teeny tiny one has long white hairs on his face, like feathers. Two nurse strong and solid, and the third can barely suck, but nurses on the web of skin between your thumb and forefinger just the same. All of them are loud and noisy and insistant that they know best, what each wants.
"It's probably going to die," you say to yourself, but out loud you say "please, baby, just take the bottle. Come on, you can do it." You poke the nipple at its mouth again and again. "Come on, little one." And then when it doesn't, you stroke the little mole-ish creature with a finger. "It's probably going to die," you remind yourself, as it wriggles, blind, up your forearm and falls asleep in the crook of your elbow, its wrinkled little face tucked into you.
You can't not name them, not really. You have to call them something, even in the privacy of your own mind, so you find yourself listing them: the stripey one has eaten and pooped, stumpy-tail has pooped but not yet eaten, and tiny just peed and nothing else. You mix up their epithets so that nothing sticks, refrain from using capital letters (even in the privacy of your own mind), and nothing becomes "official" like a name, but you can't cease from identifying them just the same.
You feel it breath, twitch, and hiccup. Its skin and fur crackle with dehydration, and its nose has gone from pink to bright red. But it wrinkles its face in disgust and turns away when you bother it, trying to drip milk into its mouth.
It's probably going to die, you say, but for right now, quiet and breathing against the warmth of your arm, it is most definitely alive.
"They're probably going to die" you hear, on the phone.
"They're probably going to die anyway," you find yourself repeating, later, in explanation.
But because you have to, you add: "But we have to try, at least."
"What else is there to do?" you ask. "You can't just put them back in the trash."
They are, probably. Going to die. You think this as you hold them mewling in your hand. The thing is, though, you think, poking at a tiny mouth with an impossibly hopeless rubber nipple, it's not dead now.
No, this thing is very much alive, eyes sealed, suckling on the end of your finger. It presses a tiny paw (with slivers of claws) against your hand in an instinctual movement to knead and nurse. It is alive, so all you can do is try to keep it that way, for as long as you can.
Everyone warned, "Don't name them." As if naming them would give them a personality, as if the name would make them more alive than they already are, and hence harder to lose. But the truth is, naming doesn't give anything, it simply confirms what is already there. They already come with everything a name identifies. This one has stripes, that one a crooked, stumpy tail, and the teeny tiny one has long white hairs on his face, like feathers. Two nurse strong and solid, and the third can barely suck, but nurses on the web of skin between your thumb and forefinger just the same. All of them are loud and noisy and insistant that they know best, what each wants.
"It's probably going to die," you say to yourself, but out loud you say "please, baby, just take the bottle. Come on, you can do it." You poke the nipple at its mouth again and again. "Come on, little one." And then when it doesn't, you stroke the little mole-ish creature with a finger. "It's probably going to die," you remind yourself, as it wriggles, blind, up your forearm and falls asleep in the crook of your elbow, its wrinkled little face tucked into you.
You can't not name them, not really. You have to call them something, even in the privacy of your own mind, so you find yourself listing them: the stripey one has eaten and pooped, stumpy-tail has pooped but not yet eaten, and tiny just peed and nothing else. You mix up their epithets so that nothing sticks, refrain from using capital letters (even in the privacy of your own mind), and nothing becomes "official" like a name, but you can't cease from identifying them just the same.
You feel it breath, twitch, and hiccup. Its skin and fur crackle with dehydration, and its nose has gone from pink to bright red. But it wrinkles its face in disgust and turns away when you bother it, trying to drip milk into its mouth.
It's probably going to die, you say, but for right now, quiet and breathing against the warmth of your arm, it is most definitely alive.
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