They call them “drop offs” here in the country. It is pretty common. Someone has a litter of kittens because they don’t bother to have their cats spayed or neutered. Then they don’t want to bother finding homes for the babies. So they drive the kitties out to the country at night, and throw them out in front of a barn. My folks’ barn is fairly close to the road, and they aren’t on a major street, but it is a pretty easy to drive from a state highway.
Yesterday, this tiny orange tabby ball of fuzz appeared between my brother’s boots, as he got out of his truck. The fuzz ball followed his voice and smell, and drug itself toward my brother. Then the folks’ big rottweiller dog snatched up Fuzzball, shook it hard, and Kitty screamed bloody murder.
Rescued from the clenches, the folks brought Kitty into the house, banished the dog, and went to work cleaning the crusty eyes, checking for broken legs, and this is where I came in. After the eye cleansing, I rocked the baby and finally brought her to my sister’s. We bathed Kitty in Dawn for dishes, because I had read that it was a flea killer. We made a fourteen mile Farm and Fleet run for distemper meds, litter, flea dope, and a nit comb. We doctored Kitty, sexed him, and I named him Beedle.
All the barn cats here are of the “Weedleman” ancestry, named Teedle, Deedle, or some variation thereof, so Beedle seemed the perfect name. He is a fine cat. Though skinny and small, he has long legs and tail, and now cleaned up he is a handsome fellow. He is fearless. He slept a lot yesterday, but is out and about with Hattie, my doggie niece, Rosie, and doggie nephew, Becker. He has nosed the dogs, walked under them as they ate, and snuggled on Rosie’s paws. He has used the litter box, eaten wet and dry food, and has found his voice. His meow is pretty pathetic, but he has a killer purr.