When I was ten years old, I came home from school to find dead kittens strewn across the lawn.

Mittens, our grey tabby with white paws, had yet another litter, this one born in the stable at the bottom of the hill. Once she had a litter inside the house, trying to hide upstairs on the third floor. My sister and I found her and watched quietly as she pushed them out one at a time, each in its own sac, patiently licking off their placentas as they blindly came to life. Mittens and the whole litter of five or six kittens fit in a shoe box. I waited anxiously every day for their eyes to open and their wobbly legs to gain strength so I would be allowed to play with them, cuddle and kiss them, and maybe even put doll clothes on them when they got big enough. They fought to get to Mittens’ swollen nipples, pumping their tiny paws back and forth to encourage the milk into their little pink mouths as they clumsily tumbled over one another, more eagerly each day. Sometimes she would move them: carrying them one at a time in her mouth—gently by the scruff of the neck—seeking privacy and dignity away from our interference. My sisters and I would search high and low until we found her hiding place. We whispered that we wouldn’t hurt her babies as we petted her silky coat and scratched behind her ears, careful to keep our distance when she hissed, quick to pull back when she swatted with her paw. 

This newest litter she’d had outside in a corner of the stable that housed our pet food, tractor, and lawn supplies (not horses like the neighbors) … perhaps hiding from three little girls who couldn’t wait to get their hands on the soft, warm bundles of fur that she considered her own.

We only had the one cat, so where the kittens came from was a mystery, but a natural one that didn’t trouble me. I’d been watching kittens and puppies be born my entire life and loved it; who was I to question this enchanting miracle.

So when the school bus dropped me off that warm September day, I ran down the steep driveway with great enthusiasm and anticipation, intending to go directly to the stable to play with the kittens. At first I thought that they were coming to greet me, tiny dots on the grassy hill—gray, white, calico, tiger striped. How could so much variety come from one cat? But they weren’t moving and as I got closer, I saw that one was even headless. Dead! All of my beloved kittens, dead!

“Mom!!!” I wailed, red faced and crying. “Mommy, come quick!” I thought I might throw up.

My mother opened the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the concrete slab from the TV room where she’d been ironing my dad’s dress shirts and watching her programs. “What’s all this noise and commotion,” she scolded, a look of consternation on her face. 

I barreled up the hill and into her arms, sobbing. “The kittens are dead!”

“Oh no!” she exclaimed, surprised by the news. She held me as I cried, my arms tight around her waist. I pressed my body against her soft belly and breasts, and her hand absently stroked my hair.

“Oh my goodness, it looks like a slaughterhouse out here,” she commented. “Let’s go inside.”

She sat me down on the couch and went to get me a drink of water. I sniffled and cried and felt like my heart was going to burst.

When she came back to sit with me, I asked her if she knew what happened. 

“Well, I’m not sure. I saw that tomcat who’s probably the father prowling around earlier today. Maybe he did it.” 

“Why? Why would he do that?!” A father killing his own made no sense to me.

“Honey, I don’t know. Animals can be cruel sometimes.” She didn’t mention the dead cat that had been left on our doorstep by the neighbor boy last winter, or suggest that a human animal might have done the terrible deed. I accepted the explanation that the tomcat was the culprit, left to wonder about the unpredictable behavior of fathers.

“Mom,” I asked, “when will my heart stop hurting so much? When will it stop feeling like it’s piercing me open?” I noticed that she wasn’t crying at all. She wasn’t done in by the kitten massacre like I was.

“Oh, you’ll grow up in time,” she assured me. “Your tender heart will toughen up and you won’t feel so deeply anymore.”

She patted my knee and went back to her ironing.