The Stardust Lounge_ Stories From a Boy's Adolescence - Deborah Digges [41]
We quote from a movie, The Long Riders, in which the outlaw Cole Younger says to Belle Starr, “You're a whore, Belle. You'll always be a whore. That's what I love about you.” We change the quote slightly for Rufus:
“You're a hound, Ru. You'll always be a hound. That's what we love about you.”
The bulldogs Buster and G.Q. are no threat to the kittens. Sometimes we let them through the gate to say hello and to acclimate to the new arrivals. The bulldogs sniff the kittens with passing interest and then they are content to be led out of the room.
We've tried putting Rufus on a tight leash, but once in the room with the kittens, he pulls hard toward the drawer, his face lean and otherworldly. He looks to be on the hunt, and in a rush we drag him, protesting, back across the bare wood floor and outside the gate where he pines and howls—long and lamenting—as only a basset hound can.
When I arrive home from the university in the evenings, Charles, Stephen, and Trevor greet me like new fathers, dish towels over their shoulders. They hold close a kitten who feeds on one of the baby bottles the vet has given us. I prepare a bottle, lift another of the kittens from the drawer, and join them.
We sway together in the dining room, talking over the day, feeding kittens, consorting, worrying over one or the other who seems to us just now a bit listless. We plan dinner, deciding what kind of carryout sounds good.
The November dark comes on early. It will usher in the December freeze. But our dining room is brightly lit, and warm. Our house, like a pleasure boat, throws a wide light across the leaf-strewn lawn.
From the basement we've hauled up a humidifier and two old area heaters once so necessary to us in our cold apartment in Brookline. Now they are essential to our nursery, though the heat and humidity bring out the room's new odors of milk, urine, and feces. The kittens are so tiny that on their own they can't yet pass water or defecate.
When each of us finishes feeding a kitten, we massage the little belly over a paper towel as we mimic as best we can a mother cat's tongue. The kittens move their bowels.
When Charles first demonstrated the procedure the vet had shown him, Trevor and Stephen swore off this task.
“Gross!” they chorused as, laughing, whooping, they'd backed away over the gate. Later, clearly affected by the crying as one by one the kittens waited for Charles or me to feed and massage them, the boys overcame their squeamishness.
With their help the task of feeding the kittens goes quickly. Cleaning them up, however, takes a while. With disposable wipes, then a dry towel, we rub the kittens down.
So far all are healthy, eating well, and growing rapidly, but they are a sight, a mound of fat-bellied wild-haired ragamuffins who, yawning, climbing over one another, mew loudly in the blankets as they settle in to sleep.
Now the boys head upstairs to take turns in the shower. I grab my car keys and head out the door to pick up the pizza and salad.
We're in a bit of a hurry one particular evening. As we stand eating our dinner over paper towels, Eduardo Bustamante arrives, as expected, with five or six boys in tow. Mouths full, we greet each other; Stephen and Trevor lead the crew into the basement where tonight they will broadcast a radio show from Stephen's room.
The radio show is a recent phenomenon. Having secured an AM frequency on a local channel, Eduardo directs a freewheeling couple of hours once a week during which the boys play music and respond to questions and ideas he raises regarding school, race, girls. Or the boys themselves have topics to air.
I'm listening tonight, but at the top of the basement steps, the kitten Bette Davis held against my chest. Earlier I noticed how much smaller, suddenly, she is than her brothers.
I've called the vet, and though it's after eight already, he has agreed to meet me at his office in a few minutes to look her over, give