The Hungry Kittens

by
Liz Kollar

On Lake Swannanoa in northern New Jersey, there is a tiny island, covered with mountain laurel, scrub fir, wildflowers and weeds, which sits like a bowl of luscious salad greens on the choppy surface of the water at the far end of the lake. It is about thirty feet across and rocks of various shapes and sizes are strewn like croutons around the sandy shoreline. Lake water laps constantly against the rocks like the soft slapping of waves beneath the keel of a sea-going ketch and there is a constant litany of sound that is both relaxing and hypnotic. No one lives on the island, and people rarely visit it except for mother and father who were positive the biggest and tastiest fish hid amongst the pickerel weed near the rocks waiting to be caught.

Now, it was nearly dusk, the best time to go fishing, and father, using all his strength, propelled the old rowboat through the channel that divided the two sections of the big lake. He maneuvered the boat skillfully between the rocky underpinnings of the wooden bridge that separated the two bodies of water, one of which was natural and the other, man made by the Civil Conservation Corp, known as the CCC. In the distance, illuminated like a jewel by the setting sun, lay the island. Mother sat at the back end of the boat trolling for the pickerel and the big mouth bass so abundant in the lake. She held her fishing pole with one hand and the fishing line in the other, the lure dancing in and out of the water maybe fifty feet behind the boat. She preferred to hang on to the line with her hand because she could feel the tug of a biting fish better that way. This was a special time of togetherness for my parents, in which the cares of the day melted away, just mother and father, the boat slicing through the water, the breeze brushing their faces, and the glow of the setting sun painting the water and the sky with impossible beauty like the brush of a master artist, in broad strokes of gold, orange and fiery red.

Mother was usually a lucky fisherman. She would often pull in pickerel that were twenty or more inches long. These were fat and round, almost like eels, and when cleaned, breaded and pan fried made a delicious dinner. Father was especially fond of them though the rest of us, my two older sisters and my two big brothers, didn’t care for all the bones. The pickerel looked like miniature alligators with long snouts and pointed teeth that could easily snap your finger off. Mother, however, was quicker than they were and she would flip them into the rowboat with her net before they knew what was happening to them and they would flop about until father could put them in a pail of water that was always with them on their fishing trips.

They were almost at the island when mother saw something plunge into the water and head for the boat. As father rowed closer, she counted two small heads in the water, and there was a lot of splashing. At first, she thought they were water moccasins and she had father ready his oars to fight them away.

"Meow! Meow! Meow!" The little creatures cried piteously. They weren’t snakes; they were kittens! With flailing paws and eyes wild with fear, they swam through the sun-streaked water and over to my parent’s boat, desperately looking for help.

"Stop the boat, daddy!" mother cried. "Poor little things. We can’t let them drown." And she turned to him with pleading eyes.

Father stopped rowing and reversed the oars to get the boat closer to the kittens. By now they were not only meowing, but were choking from all the water they had swallowed. It was a pathetic sight to see them struggle. "Cats can’t swim," father said, totally amazed. "I don’t believe it"

Using her fishing net, mother scooped a skinny gray kitten out of the water and brought it into the boat and then a black and white one which had barely been able to keep it’s head above the water. They lay shivering and exhausted in the bottom of the boat, bits of the pickerel weed tangled in their matted fur. "Poor babies," she cooed. "They’re so thin! Do you think they have rabies?" and she turned to father for the answer. Mother was a nurse and worried about things like that.

Father laughed at her consternation and then said he’d row back to the cabin where they could clean them up and give them some food. He rowed under the bridge and back through the channel, and when he rowed past the beach where we were swimming with our friends, he called out to us, "Come on home and see what we’ve caught."

My sister Tilly and I dove into the water and swam alongside the boat until we got back to our dock, all the while wondering what mother held so carefully on her lap and what father was chuckling about. My sister, Julia, and my brother Theodor, paddled the canoe in back of us..

By now, mother’s compassion had gotten the best of her and she’d wrapped the shivering kittens in her sweater. They didn’t act sick, just hungry and she was sure someone had left them on the island to starve. It made her angry to think someone could have been this cruel. As she marched up the path and through the woods to the cabin with the kittens in her arms, the rest of us followed her like a brood of curious chicks. Father brought up the rear with mother’s rod, her pail and the fish she had caught earlier.

As soon as we got to the cabin, Tilly and I took turns brushing and drying the kittens until they finally yowled in protest. My sister Julia said we should stop fussing with them and give them some milk to drink. Being the oldest of us girls, she was already busy peeling potatoes for supper and scraping carrots while mother cleaned the fish. It was a big one, at least twenty-two inches long and would make six good-sized dinner portions. As she scraped and cleaned it, the smell made the kittens crazy. They jumped onto the kitchen table and from there into the white enamel sink and on top of the fish.. "Stop it!" She screamed at the cats as they tore into her fish. "Go away! Shoo!"

But, there was no stopping them. They were too hungry; they wanted that fish. Tilly and I nearly doubled up from laughing so hard. Julia threw a carrot at them but they paid no attention to her. "Bad cats! Drop that fish!" She scolded. By now, the slippery fish had flopped out of the sink and onto the kitchen floor and the little kittens were chewing away and licking their lips "I guess no one is going to want to eat this fish any more," Julia said, her hands on her hips. And for once, she was absolutely right.

Father came in to see what all the screaming and laughing was about and my two brothers stood in the doorway and shook their heads at all the commotion. "Just throw the fish out in the yard," Father said "They can finish eating it out there; we sure can’t eat it.."

Of course, we ate a lot of bread and butter that night along with fried potatoes and buttered carrots but that was all right. We’d had a good laugh and the kittens had a good meal.

"I guess God must have been watching out for them," I said with a happy smile on my face because I loved cats.

Father agreed. "He must have known that we’d take care of them."

A few days later, after much soul searching, scratched furniture, and little sleep, mother gave the kittens to a neighbor lady who lived in a cabin down the road from us. She loved cats, too, and didn’t mind the mess. She said she would take them back to the city with her at the end of the summer.

None of us could figure out how the kittens had lost their fear of the water long enough to swim from the island to the boat that day, but I guessed they were so hungry that they became brave. I wondered, maybe the kittens meowed so loudly that God heard them and sent mother and father to save them. Everyone laughed at me but I truly believe He did...because I know He’s more than able to help everyone, even hungry kittens.

©2003 Liz Kollar