Once Upon an Early Spring
It was an early spring for Md. in 1955.
The peonies had begun their unusual cycle, crocuses were shooting through and the lawn had begun growing again. It was kitten season and our Mama cat had another litter, six this time. I watched them being born, tiny, wet mousy creatures squirting anew in turn, blind as could be. We’d always had a lot of cats, and, counting Mama there were 3 adult toms and a female. One named Speedy Gonzalez sped around the house and grounds, chasing everything and nothing.
The kittens were 3 weeks old when they were attacked, sitting outside on a woolen spread in the late March sun. Of all the dogs that resided in that neighborhood one, Spunky, a boxer mix, was the biggest and by far the meanest. My mother heard the mayhem and ran outside. She told me Mama scratched, screamed and clawed at him as he mangled the kittens, catching them in his teeth and throwing them into the thin air. When it was over and Spunky had been chased away, 3 were dead, and 3 were mutilated, their rear legs crippled.
Inconsolable, I buried the 3 out by the slope, an incline at the back of the house, a particularly verdant, lush part of our yard, due to the primitive septic tank there, likely dug in the 1930’s.
The 3 who survived lay silent on the blanket as the long afternoon passed. Mother and I were still in shock by the time my father came home from work. In the living room I heard the “thwack” of the car door slam, a daily flinch coursing through me anew.
Over dinner Dad’s face clenched as he listened to what happened but otherwise he remained impassive. I made a plea for nursing them back to health, though it was clear they would never walk. My father quickly rejected this, saying there was nothing to do but bag them and throw them in the river.
My tear stained face and my mother’s ashen, resigned eyes did not alter his decision.
The appeal for their lives continued until the meal ended. As he stood my father said “OK, if you don’t want me to get rid of them, you have to kill them yourself.”
Sleepless, that night the anxiety swept me to and fro like a willow. Visions and sounds of the next day danced in agitated visions and piercing kitten howls.
A sensitive, timid boy, I identified with the sick and helpless. Nonetheless violence lurked within me and I shot birds with my Daisy pump.
This seemed a different kind of inhumanity, torturous.
The next day my favorite catcher from our little league team, Steve Tucker, and I got a bushel basket, put a large crab pot inside and covered it over. We filled it with water from the hose and placed the tiny bodies inside. The sound still haunts me, the clawing on the roof of the basket unceasing as they rose with the water to the top, frantic, and desperate in their craving for life. After 3 attempts we gave up, crazed, unable to go through with it.
That night at dinner my father said nothing as I recited our failure. The next day they were gone.