Five Go Live

A week ago, on Wednesday morning, Mother Cat popped.

Having inveigled us into allowing her momentarily into our bedroom (through an uncharacteristically beguiling demonstration of affection combined with an unfaltering degree of persistence), she wheedled her way into the warm and cosy gap between us as we sat drinking our morning coffee, and proceeded to go into labour.

Being new to the whole kitten-birth scenario (last time she accomplished the task out of sight and out of our awareness, in the secret, unreachable depths of the barn) we weren’t really sure what to expect. So when the incessant purring turned into sudden miaows, accompanied by the appearance of small wet stains on the sheet, we were taken a little by surprise.

“Hmmm…. I think she might be in labour. Should I go and find a box or something do you think?” I dragged myself out of bed to identify an appropriate cat-delivery room, thinking I’d get another cup of coffee while I was at it. My casual consideration of possible suitable venues was rudely interrupted by an urgent cry from the bedroom.

“You need to hurry up! Something’s happening.”

I grabbed a freshly-washed piece of quilt (that Max sometimes uses to ease his achey-boned slumbers)  , and folded it into a comfy bed-shaped bit of padding for an empty box, just as Simon rushed out of the bedroom carrying a wide-eyed, loudly miaowing Mother Cat, at arm’s length. He deposited her in the box and, to our great relief, she didn’t just bolt out of it and head for the door as I had fully expected she would.

I was reminded of my daughter’s recent labour experience, and how, having reached the point where she was wanting to push, she lost all interest in moving to a better, more comfortable position. For all her plans and intentions to deliver her baby in the birthing pool, when it came to THAT point, there was no way she was going to move ANYWHERE, thank you very much. It didn’t matter where she was, or who was watching, or what she looked like, or whether the lights were low or the soft music was playing. All that mattered was that she wanted that baby out of her RIGHT NOW!

And so it was with Mother Cat. She circled round once, flomped down into a sort of sideways tripod position and proceeded to pant, just as she had been taught to do at her antenatal classes. I offered unnecessary vocal encouragement, while she exhibited fairly obvious pushing behaviour, and within not many minutes a gross little sack of slimy black-and-white kitten-hood emerged messily into the waiting world.

Mother Cat had just about finished licking its face clean and chewing through its teensy weensy umbilical cord, when she was overtaken by another miaow-provoking urge to pant and push, and proceeded to produce a second bag of grey tabbiness.

Springing into action in my new role as Cat Midwife, I sneaked bedraggled Kitten Number One from beneath Mother Cat’s preoccupied body, so that she did not squash and suffocate it, while busily engaging in cleaning up the latest arrival.

Then there was a bit of a gap in proceedings.  Both kittens got a thorough cleaning from Mother’s magic wash-and-dry tongue, and she breakfasted on a double portion of placenta to keep her strength up for the long day ahead. Simon made us all a cup of tea, and looked up useful kitten-birth facts on the internet.

And then suddenly there was another on the way. And the box began to look a little crowded. And the bedding began to look a little messy. And whichever way Mother Cat turned to get comfortable for the next delivery, she found herself sitting on her already-born children. But somehow, I got the first two enough out of the way for enough time for another dark grey tabby to slither into existence, blowing sticky bubbles from its minuscule nose, which I wiped briskly with a handy bit of kitchen roll, while Mother Cat concentrated on detaching it from the bits still inside her.

Time flew by and Things slowed down. Time for me to pass over midwifery responsibilities to the second shift, while I went for a shower. “If she has any more, don’t forget to count the placentas.”

But nothing happened while I was away. We looked at the fluffing-up bundles of wriggle and reflected on the wonders of child-birth. And just as we were congratulating ourselves and Mother on a Job Well Done, Mother Cat looked me in the eye, yowled in that now-familiar way, and resumed The Position. In no time at all, another black and white bundle had joined the growing family.

Four kittens! Poor Mother Cat was looking pretty weary and dishevelled and, frankly, the birthing box was beginning to get a bit niffy in the growing heat of the day. I contemplated trying to move the feline ensemble to a new box with clean bedding, but Mother Cat was still very busily engaged in brushing-up the newborns, and we decided to leave her to it and attend to our other impatiently waiting animals, until an appropriate moment for a relocation presented itself.

It turned out to be a good job we waited. We should have known….there was no Fat Lady singing anywhere nearby.

After a long interlude, the fifth and final kitten slipped inconspicuously into the  furry maelstrom. And it looked just like its mother. Half white and half tabby, with by far the prettiest of the quintet’s tiny, squashed-up faces.

After completing the customary post-natal duties, and polishing off the last placenta, Mother Cat leaned back exhausted against the side of the box, and lay there soggy and inert, while the writhing mass of squirming new life slithered and clawed its blind, deaf way to the milk bar.

Looking at the heaving heap of new life, struggling to accommodate to its rude awakening from its womb-safe slumbers, it was hard to believe that it had all fitted inside the slender proportions of Mother Cat’s small frame.  And, as Mother Cat eyed the five-mouthed threshing worm of torment through half-closed eyes, as though it was an alien monster intent on draining the last dregs of life from her spent and empty body, I thought that this would be a good moment to have a chat with her about future methods of contraception.