Milk For The Jaguar Kitten

Where could we keep it? That was the question; this little jaguar kitten, found all alone in the jungle. Suppose the mother should seek it out? And he looked closely at every shadow beside the twisting path. Well, I wasn't sure myself what to do with him, and I was candidly surprised at finding the little fellow on his own. Only once before had I come across a young cat alone and away from his den, and that was a bobcat in Arizona. Later I learned its mother had been killed and the kitten was prowling for food. Something like that might have happened here—one of those unknown jungle tragedies that might have left this fuzzy youngster bereft of parent and of kind.

So for a mile I hurried beneath the hot afternoon sun, and at the clearing where our camp was made I looked down. The kitten, worn out with travel and unaccustomed happenings, and lulled perhaps by the warmth of my body, had fallen asleep. Just outside the thatched lean-to I threw down a leather jacket and laid him on it. Sleepily he raised his eyes, looked up at me in a puzzled, friendly way, yawned until I could see the double row of tiny milk teeth, and in another moment was asleep again. Even Pedro smiled grudgingly.

An hour later my newly acquired pet awakened and announced his presence with a succession of shrill piercing cries. It was like a dozen catbirds suddenly become vocal. But I was ready, and setting a large plate of our precious condensed milk before him, waited. Clumsily the jaguar put his foot in the warm milk, quickly drew back, shook the paw, and then licked it. And, as nearly as a kitten could, his eyes took on a look of pleasure. Then he sniffed the plate eagerly, but the technique of lapping was beyond him, so to help matters I pushed his face in it. He withdrew with milk-covered whiskers, spat at me, and backed away. Clearly his feeding was not yet on a business basis, and might not be as easy as I had thought. I looked a little hopelessly at Pedro, but he rolled another cigarette and murmured something about people who never grow up.

Again the kitten smelled the milk and mewed. Certainly he wanted food. I dropped a piece of cloth in the milk and held it to his mouth, and for a time he chewed with a kind of sucking sound, getting perhaps a few drops down his throat, but it looked like a long drawn out operation. Then came inspiration. From somewhere in the depths of my duffle bag I brought forth an eyedropper, quickly filled it with milk, and, holding the cat in one arm, I put the dropper between his teeth and squeezed. There was a gurgle, a look of intense surprise, another gurgle, and at last a sigh of utter contentment. The eyedropper was empty. Triumphantly I grinned up at Pedto.