Goodbye, Gamma

27 May, 2025

Monday: a spontaneous movie night plan emerged—the latest Mission Impossible—ordinary day.

I wish it had been an ordinary night.

At 4 in the morning, I was awoken by K, who informed me that a kitten had fallen out of a window. I wish I had grabbed the towel on my first way down. Gamma was lying on the wet ground outside; God knows how long she had been lying there. We did not see any blood, so we allowed ourselves an iota of hope. In retrospect, that was a mistake.

While I ran up to grab a towel, K booked an autorickshaw to take us to a nearby 24x7 pet hospital. I could barely keep myself together as I gently wrapped her in a soft towel, taking care not to injure her further. She struggled and protested despite her broken limbs, but eventually, she was in my arms and we were on our way. I wished she would stop struggling against the wrapping intermittently, but was grateful to be seeing some signs of life. The rickshaw had barely come to a halt when I got off and rushed up the stairs. With my hands full, I could only bang on the glass door with my head to wake the attendant sleeping inside.

As Gamma lay on the doctor’s table, I gave him all the information that I had, meanwhile praying silently that she may be saved. As he examined her limbs for pain, she cried out, and I nearly cried with her. Her forelimbs were shattered, broken at the shoulder joints; she could not move them at all. It was impossible to stabilize the fracture—splints and casts only work if the fracture is distal enough to immobilize both above and below the break. Her hindlimbs seemed fine, but her spine was broken in two places. There was no open wound, but it was impossible at the time to tell whether there was trauma-induced internal bleeding caused by the fall.

The sombre doctor informed us quite frankly that the chances of survival were slim, especially for a child this young. While adult cats do stabilize themselves in the air and tend to land on their feet to escape death, kittens are too fragile to handle such falls. He gave her something for the pain, after which she calmed down, but was still struggling too much for scans. Sedation was out of the question given her state. We were told that there was nothing to do but monitor her overnight, and bring her back in the morning when she could be safely restrained long enough to be scanned for internal injuries. The doctor did not look optimistic and told us straight away that even if Gamma survived, her limbs would never be quite the same—she would require constant assistance.

That day would never come, though. On our way back, I felt the towel dampen, and my heart sank. I figured it was probably her bowels evacuating, a classic sign of death where the sphincters loosen up, but I wasn’t willing to give up on her. When I saw blood pooling in her mouth and nose, however, there was no more scope for denial. We took her back to the vet, who attempted to restart her heart, but to no avail. Gamma was gone.

Gone, but not forgotten

As the only grey tabby in the litter, she bore a striking resemblance to her mother, Epsilon. Intrepid, inquisitive, and feisty, she was the first to start nibbling at solid food and the last to get comfortable with humans. Since she was semi-feral, however, it was difficult to get to know her better in the short time that she was here. Her littermates are getting quite comfortable now, but it’s still a work in progress. While they are friendly and do not bite or scratch at all, they’re still a bit scared. With every day, though, they appear to be getting more relaxed. The power of love really does work; the more you give, the more you receive.

Gamma’s grandmother, an unnamed grey tabby, was the first one I got acquainted with in this building. She was, however, extremely averse to human interactions and impossible to tame. Her children, Epsilon and Delta, were less averse and grew more comfortable with us, but still paranoid. Delta still does not allow a human to come anywhere near her and even runs away from Epsilon’s children. Epsilon herself, however, became a lot friendlier over the past year, to the point where we can pet and play with her and her children. In this gentle progression of trust and love, Gamma’s death felt like a cruel aberration. All the small leaps of faith were dashed away by her fall.

For all the misfortune that befell Gamma, at least she wasn’t alone. In those final moments, she was cared for. I hope she knew that she was loved dearly. When we got back, her brother was squealing in fear, frantically looking for her. As I approached, he seemed to calm down; he sniffed at my hand and nuzzled it, perhaps because he smelled her on me. How could I explain it to him? I couldn't even explain it to myself. In those early hours of Tuesday, I felt like a child again, weeping over the loss of a dear friend.