Purrl Survives the Night--Part Three

I rushed downstairs early this morning to check my raccoon kit.

He was sleeping soundly atop his towels. I was ecstatic to see that he had made it through the night. Perhaps we hadn't rescued him too late at all.

"Come on," I cooed. "You need your breakfast."

I put the titty bottle in the microwave as he crawled up to my neck, my other hand stabilizing his tiny butt. After thirty seconds, I took out the bottle and put the nipple to his lips. Though he didn't open his mouth on his own, the jaw moved with more suppleness--not as dried shut as last night. I pried open his mouth, inserted the nipple and squirted the fluid into his mouth. This time, the mouth opened and closed, almost as though he was trying to chew. I remembered that with Rustle, I squirted once and paused to let him swallow and get his bearings on being force-fed. Then, I squirted again and waited. It took a while to feed Rustle this way, but at least I hadn't overwhelmed him with the process.

Coffee in hand, Edgar came over to watch the nursing routine. I looked up and smiled grandly. He said, "Some birthday present, huh? You always said you wanted to raise another raccoon, and here you have him. Hey, we didn't check to see what sex it is." So, I held the kit while Edgar checked under the tail. "I believe we have a little female here."

"Oh," I said. "Well, then I can't call her ''Rustlelina' then. I've been thinking: let's name her Purrl, after Purrlicue (Purrlicue was our twenty-year-old cat that died last year). The kit was calling to us with not quite a purr but with more like a chirping, twittering sound, but it sort of sounded like a purr. But I'd like to honor Purrl, too, by naming this raccoon after her.

Edgar smiled. "Purrl it is." He watched me giving Purrl her bottle. "You're in heaven, aren't you. Well, again, you've got your work cut out for you. Looks like this is going to be The Summer of Purrl."

If it's anything like The Summer of Rustle, we're all in for a treat."

"You betcha!" I said.

Purr Lives--Part Two

I whisked the raccoon kit downstairs, opened the freezer, and took out the tin of KMR or Kitten Milk Replacer. I sifted through another cabinet and found a new pet bottle still inside its original container. Then, I got out a shaker for making mixed drinks, read the directions and proceeded to make the kit a long-overdue supper.

As I was mixing the KMR with water, I noticed how the kit almost looked dried up. His fur was icky, and his skin seemed almost adhered to his body--like no space between the skin and the body proper. He was extrememly dehydrated. His attitude revealed his lack of moisture, too, because he acted as though he couldn't see, and it didn't help that one eye was pasted shut with eye matter. So, even before I tried to feed him, I got paper towels, wet them with warm water, and began stroking him all over. My towels rapidly turned yellow--probably from his sitting in his own waste for such a long time. I think the washing also helped stimulate him back to reality a bit, for he began to move his head slightly, almost as though he was analyzing his surroundings.

I out the KMR solution into a bottle and put it to his mouth. When I had done that with my first raccoon kit, he immediately began sucking on it. This kit, however, was in dire shape: he didn't even know that there was a nipple bottle at his lips and that milk was running down his chin.

A chill went through my body: had I only thought, when I first heard the noise in the fan, that some critter needed rescuing, he might not be so worn out and dehydrated. The kit may have lost his suck reflex. Losing a suck reflex is not a good prognosis for a baby animal. Still, I was determined he should have liquids.

I put a fingernail between his upper and lower jaw and pried the lower jaw loose. It was like a creaky chest that hadn't been opened for years. When I had it open, I stuck in the nipple and squirted the good milk into his mouth. It dribbled out the side and down his chest.

I was worried. Was he so far gone that he couldn't even swallow? This wasn't looking good. "Edgar! He needs fluids. He's all dried up--can't even drink anything."

Edgar went for the fluids and gave him five cc's under the skin in two places. I had already washed his eyes and put opthalmic ointment in them. But I had to try to get him to participate in the feeding. I could jam as much liquid into his mouth as possible, but if he couldn't swallow, all my attempts at saving him would be lost.

I warmed the KMR in the microwave, put the nipple to his lips--nothing. He just hung limp in my hands: too far gone. I cursed myself for ignoring his cries the previous day. I tried again--squirting the liquid into the back of his mouth. This time I saw his mouth move, and as another squirt went into him, a tiny, broad tongue lapped at the juice. He wasn't sucking, but he was licking the fluid.

For an hour I worked with him, Edgar helping to steady him in my arms. His head was almost as long as his body, and he kept twisting it away from me as though he didn't like bing forced to drink. After half the bottle was empty, I squeezed his belly: it was taut.

I held him against my chest, and he made a feeble attempt to crawl up to my neck. I helped him--shades of Rustle dancing through my head--and he made it to my hairline where he burrowed his head. While he lay on my shoulder, with one hand steadying him, I made him a nice raccoon nest out of a cardboard box and towels. Then I heated in the microwave a sack of birdseed that people use on sore body parts and wrapped it in a towel.

I put him in the box on top of the heated pouch, and he fell right to sleep. My only worry was that we had rescued him too late and that he wouldn't survive the night.