The Rescue of Journey and Taz

In the sweltering heat of summer, when the temperatures were in the nineties and the air was thick and muggy, two tiny lives waited quietly in the darkness of a cluttered garage, trying their best to stay cool. They were only three or four weeks old, their little bodies malnourished and fragile, ridden with fleas, but their beautiful blue eyes wide as the sky itself.

The house of a brother who posted an ad, pleading for help. His brother had passed away, and the other brother, Dean, was left to a house cluttered with furniture, a pile of boxes containing what the brother owned, and the garage was barely a garage. —the washing machine, bins overflowing with odds and ends, shelves of things still waiting to be packed. The only sunlight slipped through a small, jagged hole in the wall. It was through this hole that the kittens experienced a world they barely knew but returned to the garage when Dean came to the house and fed them a tiny amount of food.

There were six kittens in that cramped space, each huddled together in the darkest part of the garage. Their mother, not even a year old herself, had stopped feeding them. I suspect that her young age made her incapable of understanding her responsibility. The owner of the mother cat, out of either ignorance or disregard, offered only half a can of wet food twice a day, barely enough for one hungry mouth, let alone six. Their malnourished bodies were thin and fragile, desperate for food, but more than that, it was the terror of a harsh world and the loneliness and neglect that were threatening their lives.

My heart melted when I first saw the ad and I knew I had to rescue at least one of the kittens, but ended up with two. With nine pets, it was impossible to rescue the whole litter. That fact tore my heart to pieces, knowing in those circumstances, those remaining kittens would likely die. The two kittens I did rescue, huddled together in the corner of their new room. The had been taken from their siblings and thrust in a whole new world.

The first days were uncertain. Their bodies, so small and weak, trembled with each movement. I fed them carefully with formula from a syringe. They couldn’t get enough, eager for more. I also gave them wet food three times a day, all in to provide them with the much-needed nourishment.  Day by day, Journey would curl beside me, gazing up with gratitude and love in her eyes. Taz explored his new world full of toys and towers, like an energize bunny. My toes were his first favorite obsession, so I knew more interactive toys were needed before my toes were tore up with scratches.

Weeks passed and, each day more hopeful then the day before, the change became more apparent. Journey blossomed into a picture of sweetness—gentle, soft-tempered, and deeply affectionate. Climbing up on the rocker in the room, she would rub her face against my cheek, melting my heart. Taz, meanwhile, earned his reputation as a firecracker—darting through the room, pouncing on her sister was not so thrilled. His energy seemed endless, but in all Tasmanian devil energy, he showed his love by climbing up and down my body like a tree. Being a person of high energy myself, I could identify with him and allowed him to get out that energy in a safe and controlled manner.

At eight weeks old, they are a testament to resilience. Their bodies radiating with health, their eyes shine with curiosity and trust, and each day is an adventure. Journey, ever the gentle soul, brings peace to the room, while Taz, unstoppable and mischievous, brings laughter and joy.

Though I wish I could have saved them all, these two have filled my heart with warmth, and a reminder that even the smallest act of kindness can rescue not just lives, but hearts.