Frogs in a box

I was finally able to go to a Dean Writers Circle writing workshop last week, puppy waiting patiently at home. This was one of the prompts, which I have stolen for my FaceBook prompts.

Frogs in a box
Father brought the kittens home one wet summer morning. He worked shifts at a factory on the local industrial site.

‘Found ’em on the verge,’ he said, ‘on the road out of Parkend.’

Mother eyed the water-stained, crumpled cardboard box with a mixture of horror and sympathy. ‘What made you stop?’ She reached a tentative finger toward the still forms, murmuring, ‘Poor little babes.’
‘Don’t know.’ Father shrugged. ‘Curse the bastard who left ’em there. Foxes would’ve got ’em before too long.’
‘Are they alive?’ Mother glanced up, frowning.
The kittens lay motionless, curled into each other, a bedraggled tangle of sodden multi-hued fur.

‘Let’s find out.’ Father set the box on the kitchen flags and knelt beside it. ‘Got a couple of towels you can spare?’ he asked Mother.

‘Of course.’ Mother hurried to the the linen press in the hall, grabbed two towels from a high shelf where I knew she kept the ones ready to turn into rags.

Father took a towel from her and gently separated from the bundle a ginger-and-white scrap, darkened by rain, eyes still closed. Folding the kitten in a corner, he softly rubbed the fur.

Mother peered, eyes anxious. ‘Well?’

The scrap squirmed, a barely visible movement.

‘This one’s alive.’ Father handed the kitten to Mother, who set it on the second towel and continued rubbing.

Four of the six were alive, just. Two black, the ginger and a tabby. Mother fed them warm milk with an eye dropper while Father slept, and when he woke he took his turn until time for his shift. I was enlisted, too, age six, shown how to not squeeze the dropper too hard, and to make sure the milk went into the tiny pink mouths. In between feeds, I hovered, engrossed in the slow return of movement, the gradual opening of tiny eyes, the faint mewling demands for food.

Three days later, those kittens were proper little cats, with round bellies, waving paws and a tumbling circus of dry, fluffy arms and legs.

Father laughed, watching them with justified pride as they wriggled in their new blanket-lined home. ‘Frogs in a box,’ he said.

I frowned. ‘No, Daddy. Kittens – you should know the difference at your age.’

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Find Cheryl’s flash fiction and short stories, including audio versions of some, here.