Two nights ago I was on the sofa, minding my own business when I heard Oscar fussing at the window. I looked up and yelped, “Oh. My. God.”
Two wee black kitties sat at the base of the birch tree, just outside the window. Reiner sprang into action, and took out a plate of food. The babes scattered, but once he came back indoors, they plowed into the dish and polished it off, instantly. Ditto the second helping of wet food. And the third bowl of kibble. They were also very thirsty.
The following morning, they were back at the base of the birch tree, and again in the late afternoon, when we managed to snap the above photo from behind the window.
We have named, them of course. One is Asbolane – so named for the jet black mineral that Reiner recently found. I pronounce it with a Southern drawl, like a Looney Tunes Southern Colonel would call his hound, “Oh, Belvedere! Come here, boy!”
They both have small white patches on their breast, Dot’s is smaller than Asbolane’s.
We don’t know their sex, their age, their provenance, though there was a lanky black adult hanging about earlier in the spring. If it was the mother, then these guys are maybe three/four months old. After their evening meal last night, I had to giggle at the little pot bellies on otherwise skinny frames. Of course they will have worms or other parasites from eating whatever mice they managed to snare. Or drinking from the puddles and the vernal pond.
If they survive the assorted hazards that come with living in the Northern Ontario, in the fall, Reiner plans on creating a den for them in the abandoned shed. They will have a very cushy place, trust me. He’s talking raised bunk, heat lamp, room service.
I am fully aware of the objections to encouraging the kittens to stay, especially if either one, or both for that matter, are female. The last thing we need is a swarm of feral cats running about. But the alternative, trapping and euthanizing them is not an option either. At least not for the moment.
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