I remember how I saved a kitten from the brink of death when I was a small child.
One day, the kitten of one of my next door neighbours made the lethal mistake of entering the apartment of another neighbour by squeezing through the grillwork. The kitten was brutally attacked by the awaiting dog. When I raced to see what happened upon hearing the noise, I saw that the poor kitten was in a very bad shape. No one gave it a chance, but my inner voice told me that I mustn't let a life go just like that. I examined the lifeless heap and saw that the worst injury was the hole in the throat. If only something can be done about that wound the kitten might have a chance, the idea kept churning in my head. And then I remembered the powder that my mother had used to heal my cuts and bruises. That might just do the trick. I rushed home for the powder and applied it to the hole. After a while I was overjoyed to see that some signs of life had returned to the kitten that everyone had given up for dead.
Eventually, the kitten survived. The slow healing went on for a couple of months, but it was to grow into a perfectly healthy cat. It had the annoying habit of excreting everywhere in the flat, probably because it had not been properly toilet-trained, but that was another story.