One cold March evening many years ago, a co-worker and I found a new litter of kittens snuggled into the closet of a drafty old boat house. Six fat little kittens mewling gently at their mother's breast!

My girlfriend of the moment was enchanted and begged to take them to the radio station where we all worked. As the station was located out in the sticks, the prospect of several good rat catchers appealed to us all. We swept up the lot of them and transported the family to a warm spot under the water heater in the mobile home located behind the station. My buddy lived in the trailer -- a common arrangement in rural stations across the nation.

The momma cat took a dim view of all of this. She called at the trailer door all night wanting to be let inside. My friend scolded her several times on the responsibilities of motherhood and pointed her back to her charges under the trailer.

When he left the trailer at dawn to turn on the radio station, he discovered the stiff corpse of the late momma cat blocking his way down the steps. From under the trailer came the cries of 6 little kittens who wanted milk, or momma, but mostly milk.

That morning at 9:59 when I breezed in to open my 10 o'clock talk show, I discovered a talk show topic on the studio floor literally crying out to be discussed. It was a brown pasteboard box full of angry, hungry kittens. An attempt had been made to give milk with a eyedropper but the quantities were loudly judged to be lacking.

My morning audience pitched in with lots of good advice. Carnation Condensed Milk cut in half with water was the food of choice. But, how to get the milk from the can to the tummy? This stumped us all until a little girl called and suggested we use a toy baby bottle. That was followed by a call from the pharmacist over in Meigs who had an ample supply of them for sale.

So began the grand adventure.

I will not tell you all the things I learned about feeding small kitties with a toy milk bottle. Should you ever find yourself in such a predicament (and don't have a girl friend at the moment) I would urge immediate euthanasia.

As the cats were now considered "my" project, they moved home with me. Twice a night I rose to feed the meowing masses in the smelly refrigerator box near the door. I would then pull out a warm cloth and press it on the full bellies to assist in digestion and produce a yellow, pasty, excrement that (thank heavens) did not smell like excrement. This was preferable to using the all natural momma cat method of licking their bellies and eating the output.

My method was not as good as that of the late momma cat. The kitties were getting sickly with terminal cases of constipation. In desperation, I turned to my morning audience again for advice. Those who were not wading toward their radio through waves of nausea in order to change the station called in and recommended that I find a nice dog.

We had one of those in stock at the radio station. Melba was pressed into service at the noon time feeding and performed admirably. I moved the entire litter that day to be closer to her warm, flat, firm tongue. The kitties got better quickly. And watching Melba "lick the kitties" became the new station passtime. She did it, she did it well, and she did it with such a look of utter disgust that we could not get enough of it.

A few weeks later, we weaned the kitties to eat mush from a bowl. I readied a new refrigerator box and then went out to retrieve the kitties from the station. The plan was to raise them up until they could fend for themselves and then return them one more time to the radio station to visit havoc on the field mice.

Melba watched with interest as we loaded her charges into my car. When I began driving away, a spark of dog intelligence found kindling and revelation flamed. Melba began leaping up and down and barking with delight. The kitties and their dreaded yellow paste were leaving! Bark! Bark! Bark! Hurrah!

I never knew just how happy Melba was until a week ago last Thursday. After 2 weeks in traction and 6 weeks in a full body cast, my 19 month old son, Robin, was freed. I won't talk about how diapers are changed in a full body cast or the horrors of violent stomach upsets while in traction. The dreaded yellow body cast is gone! Bark! Bark! Bark! Hurrah!!

© Copyright 1997, Merrill Guice, All Rights Reserved