Gracie’s Story

Almost eight years ago, my family took their usual summer vacation. Their outdoor cat had given birth to a litter of kittens almost six weeks before. One of the kittens was severely underweight. She was the runt, and when she tried to nurse, the other kittens would push her out of the way. They were also big enough that they were eating the adult cat’s kibble. The runt, however, was so underdeveloped that she couldn’t process kibble.

My parents asked us to stop by and check on their cats every couple of days until they got back from their trip.

The second time we intended to stop by that week, something changed in my husband’s work schedule, and we had to postpone a day. I was worried because I wanted to get over there and feed the runt some canned kitten food. The next evening, we arrived, and all of the kittens were off the porch. Their mother had a habit of moving them so people couldn’t find them, and she had moved them all off the porch. The problem was, it rained the night before. The bigger kittens could get back up the steps and out of the rain, but the runt couldn’t. I searched everywhere, and then I finally found her: facedown and unmoving in the flowerbed.

A sick feeling swirled in my stomach, and I crouched beside her little body. She was covered in flies and fly larvae. I watched her, waiting for her to breathe. Desperate for her to breathe, but I didn’t see any movement. I touched her. Shook her. Nothing.

At this point, I was sobbing. If we had made it the night before, she might still be alive. My hubby, seeing how heartbroken I was, started praying. I don’t know exactly what he was praying for—she was already gone, as far as I could tell—and I looked around for newspaper or something I could wrap her little body in so my younger brothers wouldn’t have to see her when they came home later that week. I was walking around the porch when I heard a cry. I looked around at the other kittens, but it wasn’t them.

My husband asked, “Was that that cat?”

I looked over at the runt in the flowerbed, and unbelievably, her little head was raised, wobbling on her neck, and she let out another pitiful cry.
She was alive!

I scooped her up and jumped into the truck. We rushed her down the road to the town vet, only to be told that he didn’t take walk-ins. My heart sank. But then he said, “Luckily, I finished my last surgery early, so I have about fifteen minutes.” He took us into the back room and examined her. She was so small that he asked, “Was she just born?”

She was dehydrated and hypothermic. He said her temperature was so low that it didn’t even register. She should not be alive.

He gave us some kitten milk, some condensed nutrient gel, and a water bottle to heat up to gradually raise her temperature, but he warned us that he didn’t think she would make it. My hubby heated that water bottle up every two hours and put it next to her struggling body for days to get her temperature up. She made it. Our little runt, by the grace of God, survived. So we named her Grace and told my Mom she wasn’t getting her back.

Gracie brought joy into our home for almost eight years. She was sweet and spunky, and she meant the world to us. She was a symbol of how much God loves us. He cares about the little things that His children care about. He gave her to us, and we cherished her. Eight days ago, she passed away from kidney failure. We fought for her, and we prayed for her, but it was time.

Our other cat, Cinderfella, was her playmate, and he grieved her loss. He didn’t play, he barely ate, and he cuddled with us more. We set out to find him a new playmate, and we found a white puff ball with a spunky personality. Four days later, they’re starting to play with each other, and Cinderfella is eating like normal again. No cat will replace our Gracie, but we’re grateful for the time we had with her, for the miracle of her little life.