L'il Kinny (2004-2007)

She crept in through a broken fence. 

On Summer nights she'd sit in the long grass of our garden and only her eyes were visible. I'd watch her through the kitchen window but if I tried to open the door she'd bolt through a gap in the panels and disappear.

When we first came back to South Shields we lived on an estate not far from the coast. We had a small council house with a constantly shifting population of neighbours. Some people moved on quite quickly and sometimes they left things behind. 

It wasn't long after we moved in that I noticed the small black and white cat. She would stare at the windows, almost as if she was sizing up the new arrivals. We didn't know if she belonged to anyone but she looked thin and bedraggled. She'd obviously been living outdoors for a while.

To begin with, we'd leave food - just some pieces of cooked ham or chicken - in the garden and close the kitchen door. Our visitor was too timid to eat if we weren't safely locked away in the house. She looked like she was close to starving but she was still wary. Gradually she'd let us leave food closer and closer to the house. It took months to gain a little trust.

One day I left the back door open as I was bringing laundry in from the washing line. As I folded the dry clothes, I spotted our visitor peering up at me. She had one paw on the doorstep and was leaning in, watching my every move.

'Hello,' I said, 'have you come to see - '  She was up and over the back fence before I could say anything else. 

Over the next few days she grew bolder. She'd come into the kitchen and have a look around. She even let me speak to her, but if we made any attempt to close the door, she'd back away.

Once she decided we were OK and we weren't trying to kitnap her, she wasted no more time. Pretty soon she was sitting on my knee and letting me stroke her. She'd crawl up my chest as I watched TV, putting her face close to mine and purring softly.

We didn't know anything about her - we didn't even know if she'd been house-trained - but as soon as we put a litter box in the passageway, she knew how to make use of it. She must have been somebody's pet. She must have been loved by somebody. What had happened? 

We tried buying toys and blankets for her, but she didn't show much interest. She liked sitting under a radiator or sleeping on my lap, but she didn't seem to have the energy to play or to chase anything. 

We called her Kinny - short for Kinnet. When I was a kid I'd known a little girl who couldn't say 'Kitten' properly and the childish mangling of a word seemed appropriate for our new housemate. 

 

By this time, I was at home all day. My G.P. had advised me to take a few weeks off work and I was back on antidepressants. Kinny was a comfort. I'd never looked after a cat before and she quickly became part of our routine. Feeding and cleaning up after Kinny kept me going through some very dark days. To tell the truth I'd never trusted myself to look after a plant, never mind a pet. Kinny started putting on weight and her fur started to look glossy. We bought flea and worm treatments - she even let us put a sparkly new collar on her.

In warmer months Kinny would go back to being an outdoor cat during the day - but as soon as the temperature started to drop in October and November (or on Summer evenings) she'd find herself an indoor spot close to a radiator.

One day we noticed a strange, sickly sweet smell in the house and Kinny had some thick reddish liquid oozing out of her ear. She didn't seem unhappy or in pain, but we were worried she might have an infection.

The Vet said she wasn't very well. They couldn't tell exactly how old she was but said her ear was riddled with tumours. They said she might not survive an operation to remove them. She wasn't chipped so we had no way of finding out anything about her. We couldn't contact her 'owners'.

The Vet gave her some antibiotics and a vitamin injection and we took her home. Kinny spent her days sitting close by or sleeping on my knee. 

We took her back to the Vets once or twice and they'd give her more antibiotics and more vitamins and nothing much seemed to change for a while. 

We started to notice that she wasn't eating as much as she used to. She didn't sit and wait next to her bowl so we tried taking food to her, but she still wasn't interested. 

The Vet said we had to make a decision. I couldn't. Kinny seemed quite happy. She was still climbing up onto my chest every time I tried to watch TV and she was still able to climb the fences and sit on top of the shed... surely she didn't have to go? 

One morning I was putting food into her bowl and I noticed Kinny wasn't walking properly. It looked like her balance was gone. She was staggering sideways and couldn't control her back legs.

Our next trip to the Vet was the last one.

I had never cried like that before. 

The atmosphere in our home changed completely. It felt like our lives had been hollowed out. And I felt guilty. Should we have tried harder? Should we have taken her to a different Vet and gotten a second opinion? Or did I leave her too long? Had I selfishly kept her in pain, just because I didn't want to say goodbye?

My wife tried to make sense of it all for me. She said Kinny must have known she was poorly, so she chose to come and live with us. 

Kinny spent the last two years of her life surrounded by warmth and love (and food). She trusted us to look after her. 

And part of looking after her was knowing when she needed to go. She couldn't make that decision so we had to make it for her.

 

We soon discovered that Kinny must have marked our home as 'safe' (or 'soft') for visitors. Other cats started to appear at the kitchen door. Some of them decided to stay and are still with us now.


 

 

 

 

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