A really long time ago, my family had a porch cat. Her name was Precious, and I loved her. She gave birth to her first litter of kittens, and it didn’t go well. She had another litter and then was hit by a car a few days later. From that litter, all six kittens survived to adulthood. But we had to bottle feed them before we could get them to canned food. I have myriad (you’re welcome husband) stories about those kittens, but this is about their time on Cape Cod.
The kittens were orphaned, and then one month later we had our scheduled family sojourn to Cape Cod to stay at a Girl Scout camp with all the other scouts in our troop and their families. Since my mother was the leader, we couldn’t back out. And since the kittens we being bottle fed, we couldn’t leave them behind.
So, we packed up all six still-eating-kitten-formula babies and dragged them to camp with us. This was, of course, strictly against camp policy. But we set up the little kiddie pool wall we had been using with them at home in the campground next to the pavilion.
Soon after we had been oh so sneaky hiding the cats, the camp director, whom we had known for years, came for a visit. The kittens were safely out of sight, but he said, “Now, there are no animals allowed in camp sites.” My mother said she, of course, knew this to be true. He said, “Good. That’s good. But if someone were to have a kiddie pool of kittens, I would say to keep them undercover and watch them closely so a fox doesn’t hop over the barrier and grab a lunch to-go or a hawk doesn’t pick one up and fly off with it.”
I think that’s the part of the conversation where I had a mini freak out. The thought of any wild animal eating one of my beloved kittens was just too much for me to handle.
We watched the kittens very (creepily) closely, and all six made it out of Cape Cod alive. And then the next year, we brought three of them back and hid them in the lodge for a few hours until we could get them checked into the kennel. Oops.