Ketchup and Mustard have always been very close. First born from a birth of five females, the two cats were practically identical in their fur, so spotted that we could barely distinguish the spots. Ketchup was blonder, Mustard was browner. Them both were sweet and warm, the true liquid-cats, of those kinds that sprawl in a single caress.

Because of some genetic problem, Mustard’s clutches were smaller and smaller. Days before labor, exploding of fatness, the cats disappeared of our sights. They loved to give birth in the dark of the quilts closet, for my grandmother’s despair. Ketchup was always the first, followed, three or four days later, by her sister.

We used to separate the boxes, in order to have nobody enraged by their nephews.

Unsatisfied by having two puppies less, Mustard went to her sister’s box and took, in her mouth the first little ball of fur that found ahead of her. When Ketchup missed one of the babies, went to her sister’s lair and took one of the kittens…. any kitten…

With the difference of the days that the clutches had, it wasn’t unusual to see in one box three fat little cats, with eyes opened and a little one, still blind, mistaken in the intense cat game.

One day, I went to the service area and caught a forgotten kitten… it was too heavy to be dragged by the scruff from a side to another.

Meowed begging for someone, mother, aunt, anyone, that took it back to its brothers’ heat. I took it in my arms; it was tender and shaky, like its little heart, pulsing crazily behind little ribs, of toothpick thickness. I took it to the clutch and arranged the first empty teat I found. Looked for a bigger box and put the two females together, with the eight collective puppies and the eighteen milk faucets. I never found another lost kitten.

Until today, I carry with me the responsibility of having touched that little being that was so fragile. To hold a newborn kitten in our hands change something inside us.

Read the original post in portuguese (Guindaste Blog): Catchup e Mostarda