Memories: Installment 3

Given that my last post centred around my animal-affinities, I might as well continue the trend. I'll take you back a bit further, so you can see why my dad sort of gave up on arguing with me about the "can we keep it!?" argument.

I was in 5th grade, and it was May. I know this because the school uniforms allowed us to switch to our "summer" outfits, which is to say the particular navy-blue shorts and usual collared shirt. Normally we girls had to wear these - well, very typical for Catholic school - plaid pleated skirts. Skirts suck for kids, unless you like feeling girly, or play a lot in the sandbox. (No seriously. We used our skirts as giant sand-carrying implements. My mother never said a word about the stains, either. I figure because she probably did the same thing, being a tombody herself and all.) Boys were stuck with corderoy pants. In the summer of the Central Valley? They melted. In the winter? We froze. Nobody won. Unless it was the shorts. They were ugly, but we loved them.

I had a bad habit of not changing out of my uniform, either right away or at all. I was just so happy to be home I'd immediately go play in the dirt without changing, which wasn't the easiest for the clothes. On this particular day, I was more focused on my new kitten than I was my clothes. Our cat Tigger had a litter earlier that year, and the kittens were all weaned and most of them adopted out... except the one I kept. Because... well, see previous "can I keep it?!" argument. (I had this discussion a LOT with my father.) Tigger had stayed long enough to wean her kittens, get spayed, and then took off. So all my attention was on my new pride and joy, my kitten, Callie. She was only like eight weeks at this point, but our cats were indoor-outdoor, and, well... she was outdoors at this time.

I came home, dropped my backpack on the floor, and immediately went in search of my fuzzy friend.

There was a creek across the street, and the cats LOVED to hang out there. The banks were steep and pretty deep. I'm terrible at estimating distance, but I'd say a good 30 feet to the water most summers, with slightly more than 45-degree incline in some places. In some, it was a sheer drop. And this was to a creek that was about 30-feet wide as well, and goodness knows how deep. It moved fast, too. But there were frogs and bugs and snakes and berry vines down there, so of course I went down there a fair bit myself. I had no fear of sliding down that steep embankment, and so my search took me to the water's swift-moving edge, calling for my kitten.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, I heard an answering meow.

I kept calling, louder, and got the same echo-location response. I couldn't place it. It was far off, but definitely responding, so I wasn't going to give up. Just then, mom popped her head over the egd of the cliff above me. Ostensibly to make sure I hadn't drowned or done something stupid.

Which I was about to do.

See, as though on cue, in that precise moment, a tiny fuzzy object lept from the berry vines on the other side of the creek. It was a kitten, all right, but not mine. My kitten was a marble-fudge tabby-tortoiseshell. This one was a white ball of fluff with grey splotches. And she was making the heroic swim across this enormous, fast... moving... um...

Mom saw her too. She called down to me, "E, she's trying to swim to you! Can you get her?!"

Some people hear what they want to hear, you know that? I heard "can you" as "go". "Go get her." So I said, "OKAY!!" and lept into the water - still in my school uniform - to swim out and retrieve this tiny kitten, who was travelling dangerously fast downstream.

I say "dangerously" because this area of the creek was just upstream from a bridge. Fun Fact: cities will dump lots of rip-rap (broken cement chunks) under bridges to keep them from eroding too much near the pillars keeping the bridge up. Rip-rap is no fun to go over. At all. Ever. Even in an inflatable raft. And it was only maybe a minute's distance from us to being drawn forcibly over tumbling rapids and very sharp rocks. So I swam like hell to get to this kitten, which was actually pretty easy. We had a pool, you see, and in the searing summer heat, you had to drag me out of the water. I was practically part fish. Swimming out to get her was no problem.

I grabbed onto the soggy furball, clutched her to me, and swam back to... hey, where'd the bank go?

I knew enough to get to the side of the creek, regardless of what the side looked like. But the bank I'd been standing on was far away now. I'd drifted downstream enough to have reached past the point of no return. This was sheer cliff all the way. Mom called to me in a strained voice, telling me to stay put, and ran for help. I clutched some weeds, clinging to the side of the creek like driftwood. I looked around, finally assessing the situation I had bounded gleefully into, found myself in a fast-moving river with no escape route and really nasty rapids not far away.

But also, I found myself cradling a tiny, helpless, 5-week-old-at-best, totally calm kitten. She was only barely applying pressure with her claws, just enough to velcro to my shirt, but not enough to hurt me. She didn't meow, didn't fuss, didn't struggle. It was as though she trusted me to get us out of this mess, that this was the worst it could possibly get and nothing could make it any less appealing than it currently was. And it was looking pretty unappealing. But there, clinging to muddy weeds in muddy water, we were together at least. She looked at me with those violet-blue eyes that kittens have when they're not old enough to be on their own, and she trusted me.

So I sang to her.

What else could I do? I couldn't go anywhere, so I figured I might as well just sing. Nothing in particular, just a little nameless made-up melody. Just me, her, the sound of the river, and a wandering song.

My brother poked his head over the edge of the cliff and said he and mom would try and catch me just before the rapids. The bank scoops down at the bridge and for a couple yards before the sharp rocks; there was just enough room to pull me out. If they could catch me. So I waited until they positioned themselves downstream - one grabbing the bridge support, one holding their hand and reaching out. And slowly, slowly, I bobbed downstream to meet them, arresting my momentum with the cliff wall as I could.

I was successfully hauled out of the water without being dashed against the rocks, and mom wrapped me in a towel as my brother held the kitten. He held it by the scruff, a dripping, sorry, sodden creature, and said, "... you risked your life, for this?!"

I did. And I'd do it again, too. I regret nothing. And I don't say that because it's an awesome story or even because I feel awesome about being a hero or something silly like that.

I say it because a year later, I got a picture from the nurse who adopted that kitten, whose name became Cleopatra. There she was, a big, sleek, beautiful cat, with ice blue eyes and smooth coat. She lived for many, many years in a happy, loving home. I made a difference. And that is reason enough.