Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [44]
‘We need a teat to suckle,’ Lucy told me when morning surgery was finished.
‘You won’t find one small enough,’ I said. I got the ‘Lucy Look’ for my efforts, her stubborn ‘don’t stand in my way’ look.
She returned after a lunchtime trip into Westcott, her mood buoyant, her voice distinctly triumphant. ‘This is the answer.’ She waved a baby doll’s feeding set at me.
I remained unconvinced until I saw the baby rodent, curled up fast asleep, his stomach full, bulging out like a white balloon. Full marks to Lucy then. But she hadn’t finished.
‘You know that cat down in the ward … the one that’s just had kittens?’
‘Er … yes.’
‘She’s boarding for a while, isn’t she?’
‘You’d need to check with Beryl, but I think she’s in for a couple of weeks. Why?’
‘Oh, it’s just something I’ve been reading up on.’ Lucy tapped the open book she’d borrowed from the hospital library as she sat drinking her afternoon mug of tea. ‘Says here how an orphaned squirrel was fostered on to a cat with kittens.’
‘Lucy, I don’t somehow think …’
That look came into her eyes again. Useless for me to say any more.
With Cyril lined up alongside the three kittens lying next to their mother, I unwisely expressed my doubts again. This wasn’t going to work; the cat would surely snap at the baby squirrel and pull it away. ‘Shhhh …’ was all I got from Lucy as we watched the mother give her kittens a protective lick. She then sniffed the squirrel. Lucy’s hand hovered just inches away, ready to snatch Cyril up in case he was attacked. There was another tentative sniff … then another as the cat’s head lowered towards the wriggling pink body.
‘Lucy …’
‘Shhhhhh …’
Suddenly the cat’s tongue darted out; the naked squirrel was lightly touched and then fervently licked as the cat started washing him. Lick … lick … lick. Back and forth went the tongue over the tiny, pink body, transferring scent. Cyril had been accepted.
Now there was the question of getting Cyril to suckle. Cats’ nipples are large. A squirrel’s mouth small, the jaws quite rigid and with two large-pointed bottom incisors already well developed. This was going to be no easy task. But then Lucy still had that look so …
He was suckling 20 minutes later.
Within three days, his eyes opened.
‘You’ll really have to watch him now,’ I warned.
Cyril scrabbled up the side of the cat basket using his large claws to grip. Once on top, he tottered along, rolling from side to side like a drunken sailor, his tail trailing behind him.
This task became easier as he grew stronger. You’d see him scuttling along the top of the basket, his tail now curled over his back, his gait less rolling now that he’d gained strength in his muscles. Soon he was moving like an adult squirrel – wild, erratic, a sudden stop, a dash in another direction.
One morning as I was doing my ward round, Lucy let the mother cat out of her kennel to allow her to stretch her legs. Cyril also slipped out and zig-zagged up and down the corridor. I guess something in his jerky movements triggered an instinctive reaction in the cat. For I suddenly saw her tense, crouch, eyes wide open, ears flat against her head, the tip of her tail twitching. There was no doubt as to her intentions – she was about to pounce, and Cyril was going to be her victim. He, oblivious to his impending demise, had stopped to have a good scratch. Then he was off again, darting down the ward. It was all too much for the cat, who suddenly leapt into the air, claws outstretched.
‘Lucy!’ I cried.
She was at the sink, washing bowls, her back to the unfolding drama. At my shout, she spun round, just as the cat sailed past her. With a loud crash, the bowl she was holding dropped from her soapy hands to the floor. It startled the cat sufficiently for her to misjudge her leap. She skidded past Cyril. Then Lucy pounced, throwing herself on the cat and skilfully pinning her down, while the bowl spun down the corridor, ringing against the metal doors of the kennels.
Cyril skittered through the bars of a kennel housing a bewildered Westie who