“Do you consider sterilizing your cat in the first place? To give birth that often, it’s a heavy load, you know!” Our veterinary doctor used to serve in the army when she was young and was quite a straightforward lady. I was a frequent guest at her clinic, regularly bringing a kitten or two to have them vaccinated.
I laughed. If the vet had been less overwhelmed with her work routine, she would have noticed that sometimes I came five or six times within a year with kittens of nearly the same age. No cat can give birth that often. Suffocating from the outbursts of laughter, I explained that my only adult cat Bilbo was male and neutered.
As for me, I never decided to dedicate myself to saving every poor kitten from the street. My cat took the decision without asking.
Bilbo had the strangest hobby one could imagine. Each time he ran into a homeless kitten during his night strolls around the district, he grabbed the baby by the scruff of its neck and brought it to me. Quite often he took part in cleaning the kitten, grabbing it with his long smokey paws and sliding his tongue along the tiny body and mug. Having lost the ability to reproduce, my cat had the father instinct that is missing from quite a large number of humans.
Luckily, I managed to give the kittens away to loving families. Each baby, saved by my cat, enjoyed life with its owner. However, this charity was sometimes annoying. In the end, it was me who was feeding the poor souls, listening to their whines and changing the cat litter… If Bilbo wanted to be a father so much, I had no other choice but let him adopt a son! I kept one tabby kitten and called him Frodo.
My idea seemed successful. Frodo attached Bilbo to the home leaving him neither time nor energy to “hunt” other kittens. The older cat spent all his time thoroughly cleaning the boy, playing with him and teaching him to hunt mice, small birds and insects in the garden. The only thing Bilbo forbade his adopted son was to climb up the wardrobe. This was Bilbo's “royal residence” that he reserved for himself.
Weeks and months passed. Frodo grew up, but he and Bilbo were inseparable. They strolled in the streets together and only came back home to eat. I should admit, I missed the times when Frodo was small: back then, I had enjoyed the society of my cats much longer.
A loud demanding “meow” woke me up one morning. Bilbo, who apparently got in here through the open window, was standing on my chest, calling upon me to wake up. I was surprised to see him alone.
“Where did you leave your son, Bilbo?” I asked.
The cat jumped on the floor and walked towards the entrance door, imperiously yelling at me - like he did every time when he wanted to show me something. I shivered, thinking that something bad must have happened to Frodo, pulled on my jeans and a hoody, and opened the door.
“Jesus!” I yelled, seeing the one who was waiting outside.
It was Frodo, safe and sound, but he wasn’t alone. In his jaws, the younger cat was carefully holding a skinny puppy. And it's no way I will allow the dog to run about in the company of these two when she grows up... Who knows what they are going to bring next time. An alien, maybe?
Picture source: https://www.flickr.com/photos/93928491@N05/8683223606/