It had been a hard few days when Sputnik gave birth. I’d been suffering autistic shutdown and meltdown with events in the world at large and at home. But on that day, June 4th, Sputnik made me calm and focus. She had been acting strangely all morning, very loving, purring around our legs. She took my husband out to the shed to show him the straw in there, then brought him back in again, and continued purring, crying, rubbing against our legs.
I went to sit in the conservatory to drink my morning coffee. I sat there in towelling bathrobe and t-shirt, in an old recliner chair that had belonged to my grandpa. Then Sputnik came out to find us. She climbed onto my lap and settled down, purring.
I realised quite soon that she was having contractions. I could feel her stomach tightening under my hand, making her whole body respond in quivers. I stroked her and spoke to her. The contractions seemed to come in clusters of three, in relatively quick succession, then ease off, before coming again. When they came she braced her foot against my hand, pushing hard, until the feeling had passed.
I’d just thought we should get some towels; the standard panic response to a mother in labour. At that moment I felt warm heat spreading down my legs. Her waters had broken. The kittens were really coming. She lay there, unconscious, it seemed, of what was about to happen. I could feel the movement of her kittens under my hand, through her fur, through her tightening abdomen.
The first kitten slipped out, a wet little thing. The wet, dark body, tiny claws with curiously splayed, blunted tips, the little whip of the tail. The blunt nose, folded in ears, and closed eyes. Then the afterbirth came, curiously solid and meaty, an organ in its own right. Sputnik curled herself down to eat this. While the blind little kitten nuzzled towards the first teat it could find, she bent her head and sliced through the umbilical cord with razor teeth, then devoured the afterbirth. She set herself to licking her newborn dry, unquestioning of the strangeness of this thing that had occurred. She just knew what to do.
Three kittens came this way, over three hours. Short by human terms, but a long time to sit in a chair under a labouring cat. One little black and white slip of life, one white and tabby, another black and white. My husband came and went, with towels to sop up the amniotic fluid, water for me to drink, and to crouch by the chair to make sure the new kittens didn’t fall as they came into the world.
When all was settled, we finally moved them. I eased myself out of my towelling bathrobe, bundled mother and babies up carefully together, and transplanted them, bathrobe and all, into a clean litter tray cushioned with a folded towel. From there, they went to live on our bed, and there they stayed.
I couldn’t have had a better gift, after days of turmoil, than to share this birth. For three hours all I had to do was soothe Sputnik through her labour pains and welcome her babies into the world. She’s besotted with her new children, and so am I.