Dumpster Kitten
My nomadic childhood as the self-anointed Mother Teresa of stray animals
I find the half-dead kitten behind a dumpster on my way back from the school bus. It lays motionless on the pavement, eyes sealed shut, gasoline-smeared fur glistening a burnt orange under the scorch of the Mediterranean sun. I scoop the kitten between cupped palms, careful to support its lolling head, and walk to the house.
In the heat, the white-domed roof shimmers; the sound of waves slapping sand beckon cool in the distance. I retrieve my tool kit and get to work in the courtyard, where palm fronds offer shade, mixing formula into a silky smooth consistency and filling the three-milliliter syringe. I nurse the kitten, dripping milk pearls into the tiny pink opening of its mouth and massaging its throat to help it swallow. I wash its ragged coat with a moist sponge, wrap it in a clean towel. Then I wait.
To say I found the kitten suggests I stumbled across it by chance, but this is not entirely the truth. As a rule, I never pass a discarded cardboard box without peeking inside or a dumpster without inspecting the parameters. While my brother and the other neighborhood kids are…
