Outnumbered

“Surprised you’re alive at all,” I mutter. I shake my head and finish going through the crates, determined to ignore the invader. When I’m nearly done, it stumbles out from behind the woodpile and drags itself over to my foot. It mews again, then follows me around as I take inventory, crying and trying to scratch my foot through my boot. It follows me outside when I’m done, flattening its ears against the wind and crying louder as it hunkers down against the door.

“You’ll last longer if you stay in there,” I tell it. “Where’s your mother? You’re too young to be on your own.”

I walk around the back of the barn and follow the tracks to the edge of the woods, but there’s no sign of any other felines around. I can only assume the mother cat never made it back from a hunt, and the kitten eventually ventured out to find her.

I go back to the front of the barn, and it meows loudly at me.

“No siblings?”

The kitten takes a step inside the barn and looks back. The wind is blowing dusty snow around the ground, and its whiskers are covered in snowflakes.

“I’m done in there,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re going to be food for a fox before long, so you might as well head for the woods and get it over with.”

With that sentiment, I begin to make my way back to the cabin. I try not to glance back, but I can hear the thing crying as it tries to follow me through the snow. I know it’s too young to survive without its mother, and I don’t want to prolong the inevitable. My chest tightens a bit at the thought, but I quicken my pace to the cabin porch.

As I kick snow off my boots, the kitten arrives at the single step to the cabin door but is far too small and weak to actually climb up. It falls a few times before giving up, then sits in the snow to cry some more.

I grab the handle of the door, fully prepared to go inside and shut it behind me. I don’t know why I stop and look at the pitiful thing. It’s probably diseased or carrying parasites. Unless I run out of mousetraps, I have no use for such a thing in my cabin. It’s not even cute—it’s mangy, scrawny, and sad.

“I’m not an animal lover.”

Again, it places its front paws on the edge of the step and tries to pull itself up. It nearly succeeds this time, which makes its fall into the snow that much more exaggerated when it fails. Its feet fly up into the air as it falls on its back and rolls a bit before righting itself and whining.

With a sigh, I reach down and pick the kitten up. It’s so small, I can barely feel its weight in my hand as I grumble to myself and go inside.

“I don’t want a cat.”

I deposit the thing on the rug near the fireplace. It sways unsteadily for a moment and then looks around the room, sniffing the air.

“I suppose you’re hungry.” I have no idea what to feed a kitten. I don’t have any milk. I could get some on my supply run, but the scrawny thing might actually die of starvation before then. Maybe that would be for the best.

As I remove my outer clothing, I debate tossing it back out into the snow. I have no need for a pet, and this one is likely sickly and going to die soon. If I keep it inside, it’s just going to stink up the place when it does expire, and then I’ll have to dig into the frozen ground to bury it.

Instead, I find a bouillon cube in the cabinet and mix it in a cup with a bit of water I warm over the fire until it’s a thick, brown liquid. In the bathroom, I find an old bottle of saline eye drops and remove the cap with the built-in dropper. I clean it out as much as I can and then fill it with the meaty broth.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I grab the mangy kitten and flip it onto its back. I place the dropper into its mouth, and after a few tries, it begins to suck.

As the kitten eats, I check it over for fleas or any other kind of vermin. I don’t find any—probably too cold for such things already. The only thing I find is a tiny penis near his tail.

“I guess you’re a boy.”

The dropper doesn’t hold much liquid, and the kitten is ravenous. I have to keep stopping to refill, which seems to piss him off no end. He howls every time the dropper goes dry, then howls louder when I take it away to get more.

The kitten’s tiny stomach only manages to hold about half of the cup of broth. Once he’s had his fill, I place the kitten back on the rug and wash the dropper out in the cold water at the basin as the kitten ventures a little closer to the warmth of the fire.

“I suppose you’re going to need a place to pee and shit.” I grumble as I head into the bathroom and open the closet door inside.

I find an old metal baking pan and fill it with sawdust from the barn and place it next to the toilet. The kitten climbs inside of it as soon as I put it on the floor, walks around in a circle a couple of times, and then does his business.

“Well, at least you got that figured out.”

I head back to the main living area and sit down in the room’s single chair. I take out my list to give it one last look.

“Ow!” The little thing digs his claws into my jeans, using all of his newfound energy to hoist himself up my pant leg and into my lap. He steps back and forth on my thigh, turns around in a circle, and then curls up with his nose tucked under his tail.

I want to be pissed off at him. I want him not to be here at all. I’ve never had a pet or a desire to acquire one, and that hasn’t changed. I’m not suited to care for anyone other than myself, and that goes for cats, too. My life is all about practicality, and there is no practical reason to keep this thing.

My leg vibrates as he begins to purr.