Have you ever had a tummy upset where you need to be sick but you resist, then you are sick and you feel much better? Well, that’s what writing this post feels like. I’m going to write it as quickly as possible and hopefully I’ll feel better afterwards.

It was supposed to have been a fun summer project for me and Goobie. We were going to foster some kittens, give them lots of love, feed them up, watch them grow, then find them forever homes. But the fun quickly turned into a nightmare that, quite literally, took over our lives. It was only after weeks of effort that some hope finally began to grow out of all the tragedy.

I’ve written about the stray cat situation in an earlier post and I’ve mentioned the fantastic work of the Tala Cat Monastery that cares for hundreds of strays. It was the summer holidays, so I took Goobie on his first visit to the sanctuary. He spent a happy couple of hours with the kittens, in particular a tiny, emaciated ginger kitten. But I was horrified to see that half of the kittens that I’d visited a couple of months previously weren’t there. I was told that they’d all died, unable to cope with the heat.  

I went home with a heavy heart – because I knew what I was going to do before I’d even consciously decided. I was going to offer to foster the most vulnerable kittens who would likely die in the heat. I had a spare room with air-conditioning and I felt a moral obligation to help. But I dreaded the emotional turmoil of getting attached to the kittens and having to part with them, like I did with Frodo’s litter last year. I was soon to discover that getting attached was the least of my problems.

I returned to the sanctuary the next day and was given a litter of five 5 week-old kittens who had been dumped in a bucket in Limassol two days earlier. They were tiny, too tiny to be separated from their mother, but they were eating solids and looked healthy. We also took home the 9 week-old emaciated ginger kitten we’d met the day before. He’d been battling with recurrent diarrhoea and the heat was making it worse.

I got the kittens home and settled them into the spare ‘kitten room’. My neighbours helped me name them. We had Sixpence, a beautiful fluffy grey kitten with white eyeliner around his eyes. I told myself I needed to be careful with him because he could steal my heart easily. He was playful and one of the biggest and I thought I probably wouldn’t need to worry too much about him.

There was also Coco, a pretty white and tabby girl, and Dobbie, a black energetic boy aka ‘Gobby Dobbie’ because he liked to talk a lot. Talia was a beautiful tri-coloured girl with very distinctive markings – she’d find a home the fastest, I thought. The runt was Ludo, a little white and tabby boy, similar to Coco. He had an eye infection and came with medication.  I figured he was the one most at risk and I’d need to keep a close eye on him.  

 And finally there was adorable Rafferty, the skinny long-haired ginger kitten with big fluffy tufts of fur sticking out of his ears. He just wanted to be held and would look at me with an expression that made my heart clench every time. Soulful is the only word that comes close to describing him. Without being fully aware of it, I became quickly, deeply attached.  

Sixpence died within 48 hours of arriving. He was totally fine when I said goodnight to them that first day, and could barely move when I went in to see them in the morning. I rushed him to the vet where he was put on a drip, but he died during the night. The vet said it was a virus, the sanctuary said it was tapeworm, I think it was to do with his digestion. It was a mystery. I was stunned by how quickly things had gone wrong.

I had genuinely believed that to save the kittens I just needed to bring them home, keep them in an air-conditioned room and feed them up. That’s how it had been with my previous rescues. I was determined to make sure the others survived, so I put them on top-quality kitten food designed for sensitive digestive systems and was confident they’d be okay.

Rafferty was always the weakest kitten, despite being a month older. When I brought him home his diarrhoea was out of his control, just dripping from him all over the floor. The cleaning was becoming almost impossible to keep on top of, there was poo over everything and the kittens were walking in it. I’d thought about writing a humorous post about the Almighty Poo-Fest, but it quickly became very unfunny. I felt totally overwhelmed. I’d done nothing for two days apart from clean up poo and wash kittens. It was worse than having a baby. I went into town and bought a massive piece of lino to put on the floor, wipes, puppy training pads, disinfectant, hand sanitiser, you name it. Finally I felt more in control.  

Rafferty was put on a veterinary diet to aid his digestion and gradually the uncontrollable diarrhoea got better. But Rafferty wasn’t getting better, he was getting weaker. It was the Cypriot holidays and my vet was closed, so I took Rafferty to my old vet where he was put on a course of antibiotic injections. Every day I took him on a one-hour round trip to the vet and back for his injection. I had to separate him from the other kittens to monitor his appetite and stools. As he was on his own, I broke my own rule (designed to help me not get too attached) and took him downstairs every evening for cuddles in front of the TV. He loved nothing more than cuddles and being part of the family. Although he was weak, he followed us around everywhere, giving affection to everyone, even Matt who (since he’s allergic) didn’t encourage it.

But he continued to get weaker and I soon had to syringe water into his mouth to keep him hydrated. The antibiotics weren’t working. One morning, Goobie had a friend round for a play-date and I was cuddling Rafferty while talking to the boy’s mum. Rafferty stood up to jump off my lap, but he just fell when he landed, unable to support his legs. Despite being on holiday, my usual vet told me to bring him to the surgery as an emergency.

Like Sixpence, Rafferty was put on a drip, but I was terrified to leave him at the vets. Rafferty needed to be around people and I was scared he’d give up if he was on his own. But the vet said he needed to stay at the surgery to be monitored in case he needed a second drip. I agreed and settled him into the vet pen and went home. I went back later that day to visit him and was pleased to see how much he’d improved. The drip had helped! I spent half an hour cuddling him, careful not to disturb the drip. Rafferty lay like a baby in my arms, reaching out his paw to touch me softly on my cheek.

He died alone at the vets that night.

I howled in the car on the way back from the vets the next morning. I cried so hard I was nearly sick. I was so overcome with grief over this little soul that I was supposed to have saved. It was all so final, I couldn’t take it in. I had him cremated, thinking that having his ashes would bring some comfort. But even now, when I look at them, this panicky pit of pain opens up and I think ‘but he can’t be in there. I was supposed to have saved him!‘ I could picture so clearly the cat he was going to grow into and I just can’t take it in that the beautiful adult Rafferty will never exist.  

Coco died 5 days after Rafferty. I first noticed that she’d deteriorated the day Rafferty died. She lost weight and stopped eating. I syringe-fed her and she seemed to pick up and eat on her own. But one morning she didn’t come to the door with the others and I found her in her bed, very weak. I rushed her to the vets but there was nothing he could do. He told me she was near to death, so instead of taking her back to my noisy home, I cuddled her in the cool empty waiting room and, after an hour, she died in my arms.  

Rafferty’s death was due to a severe bacterial infection in the intestine, possibly passed on through his mother’s milk. The sanctuary told me his brother died of the same thing. Coco’s death was a mystery. The vet said it was a virus and the remaining kittens could succumb to it at any time.

I now felt I was literally in a living nightmare, watching and waiting for the others to die. Not wanting it to happen but hoping it would all be over soon. I couldn’t concentrate on anything, I was snappy with Goobie and Matt, I had nightmares.

And then Talia started to lose weight and stop playing. In a weird way I felt angry. I raged at Matt that we could have a vet bill in the hundreds and not have a single live kitten to show for it. Of course it wasn’t about the money – the hundreds would have been worth it even if we’d saved just one.

I was now weighing the remaining three kittens obsessively twice a day and I felt sick with anxiety every time Talia lost another gram. She had diarrhoea and was reluctant to eat, though she persevered. And Ludo was puking up his food every time he ate. I had the kittens down the vets so many times all the nurses know my name. The vet told me that their digestive systems were struggling – they’d been separated from their mum too early and weaned too abruptly. He told me to feed them less frequently to give their digestion time to work between meals. He put them all on veterinary cat food designed to aid digestion. Talia was on vitamin supplements and medicine for her diarrhoea.  

So I fed them every six hours and gave Talia her cocktail of drugs. We hobbled on like that from day to day, expecting Talia to die any time. Dobbie and Ludo put on weight, shouting for their food. I realised Ludo was being sick because he was eating too quickly, so I fed him with a teaspoon to slow him down and the vomiting decreased. Talia continued to eat reluctantly. There was one day when I was doing yoga that Talia came and sat on the mat. She seemed so weak. She looked at me with a similar expression that Rafferty used – and that my first cat Gonzo used before he died of a heart condition when he was one. I’m wondering whether it’s the look of an animal that isn’t long for this world. Perhaps that’s why it pulls on the heart strings so much. Talia was giving me this look and I knew I’d lose her before the week was out.  

But against all odds, she didn’t die. The vet told me she didn’t have a virus but that she just needed time to strengthen up. And her expensive food and drugs bought her that time. Her diarrhoea stopped and I noticed all three kittens had healthy stools. Then four days ago, she put on weight for the first time in weeks and has continued to gain weight. She played for the first time yesterday and has far more energy. She now shouts for her food. Her ribs and spine don’t feel quite so sharp any more.

Has the almost-impossible happened? Has a kitten been brought back from the brink? It looks that way. But I’m not going to say any more in case I tempt fate.

But I will say that for the first time since this fostering nightmare began, I had three bouncy, playful kittens running around the lounge this afternoon. And this afternoon, Ludo and Dobbie met their forever family who will be taking them home once they are bigger and stronger.  

Unbelievably, out of all the tragedy it seems that there might be a Happy Ever After. For the first time, I’m hopeful.

Was it worth it? I have three healthy kittens still with me, so definitely.

Will I foster again? Most likely not. I don’t have a thick enough skin. I don’t know how the volunteers at the Tala Cat Monastery do it, day after day, year after year. I’d been so ignorant, I didn’t realise how difficult it can be to save a kitten that has had such an awful start in life. But the Tala volunteers are doing it; they are saving lives every day.

If you can help them by fostering, DO IT. The sanctuary is bursting at the seams. If fostering is too much, then help them by giving them a donation via their website, or donate food and cat litter when you are next in Paphos. Like them on Facebook, like them on Instagram, share their posts.  

They are total heroes.