PASHA, From Animal Shelter to A Sheltered Life: Never Give Up!

Foster Kitten Puffin

Modified excerpt from Inge H. Borg’s Book: Pasha, From Animal Shelter to A Sheltered Life

The lifeless gray featherweight that shelter personnel placed into the palm of my hand looked more like a dead mole than the kitten they insisted it was. With eyes firmly shut, ears still located flat against the back of the head, it could not have been more than ten days old. I quickly took mental inventory of my pantry and, remembering that I still had a can of goat milk from previous fosters, bundled its little body into a large washcloth to take it home where I placed it into my cat carrier lined with heating cushion and padded with soft towels. The name Puffin popped into my head for the chilled little gray lump I had just added to my clan.

The next few days were as painful for me as, I am sure, they were for the lethargic little animal. The only two things not lax about that kitten were its gums which it clamped firmly shut every time I tried to drip warm milk into its mouth; with its most unclenched part being its sphincter. It functioned the opposite way from the gums. The result was increasing and worrisome dehydration.

I simply could not bear to see this tiny kitten suffer any more days. With a permission slip from the shelter, I drove it over to the nearby vet to be released from its miserable young existence before it had to endure more pain.

“Well, little fella,” the vet said after he had established that he was dealing with a male. Completely ignoring what I had made that specific appointment for, he sunk a small syringe into a can and suctioned bits of soft kitten food into it. Then he pumped minute amounts carefully into the tiny mouth. Sure enough, the little tom swallowed a little, and a little more.

“He’ll be just fine.” The vet handed me the kitten and the can. “Mash a little of this into his bottle.”

I slunk out of the office, embarrassed and chastened by my lack of faith. My euphoria did not last long and after another week of the same struggle, I discussed the problem with the shelter manager and begged him for another permission slip. I planned to take the kitten to a second vet. Except on that morning, the busy doc had left due to some emergency on a farm. I would have to wait until Monday. Meantime, the kitten seemed to grow even smaller and weaker. I stroked and cradled him most of the weekend, and tried for him to take some nourishment.

First thing that following Monday, I drove down the winding hill much slower than I usually do. After examining the little form, he prescribed what I would henceforth call his ‘miracle elixir,’ as it brought relief and restored health to many sickly shelter kittens.

I kept that infamous permission slip buried in my glove compartment for a long time as a reminder that there is always hope—and a good vet. I still shudder when I think of how close I came to having that little life snuffed out.

Puffin not only turned into a lively kitten, but he is today a gorgeous and most interesting cat. I have seen natural sheared mink only once. His coat looks exactly like that. It is a dense dark gray with a brown shimmer in a certain light. With a head that stayed small, an almost angular face, his golden eyes, and a tail ‘that never sleeps,’ he reminds me of a lemur. I like lemurs. I loved Puffin—I still do.

Today, his name is Smokey; and he visits often when his mama travels out of town. He and Pasha are still the best of buddies.

He was tiny Puffin then ...