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In choosing its den where it did, the cat escaped the raccoons, skunks and foxes, which generally know not to trespass other than in the dead of night, when the dogs are indoors. The mother’s choice of den also achieved the remarkable feat of eluding the kuvaszoks (in fact, these dogs do not attack cats — but cats cannot know this).

After gardeners discovered the litter, they alerted Barbara, who assumed her Gertrude Jekyll outfit of Wellington boots, hoodie and gardening gloves, traipsing around feeding the nursing mother. We knew a female feral cat would be best off captured, spayed and returned to the ravine, but not before she was given a chance to teach life’s basics to her kittens.

I watched out my window as she taught her kittens how to climb stairs. This touching rite reminded me of nothing so much as the sessions all parents have of teaching children to ride bicycles, including the wholesome sense of triumph when the little cat got to the top of the stairs beside the house and ran around its mother in circles of joy. One kitten was very unwell and was dispatched to the veterinarian, after which it quickly recovered from a nasty infection. Another kitten was adopted by our gardener.

Then the drama began in earnest. For two days, we heard almost constant distressed meows, and eventually Barbara and I systematically thrashed around in brambles and undergrowth until, with a powerful flashlight, we found a fierce little feline face about five feet down a plastic overflow sewage pipe, only about five inches in diameter, where the pipe turned from vertical to horizontal. It was a touching sight and often a nerve-wracking and even haunting sound, all made more poignant by the distress of the very doughty but rather beset mother, a mere wisp herself, as she listened to the cries of one kitten and tried to provide for another, while keeping a lookout for larger and unfriendly beasts.