She never spoke much to begin with. She just stand there on the side, very quietly, watching the world goes round; watching her world stand still.

She was a tiny kitty, without mother, without sibling, alone in the hustle of ignorant feet stomping above and around her.

Perhaps the view is less daunting from the sideline, so there she sat, still quietly, blending in perfectly, just enough to be ignored, just enough to get out of the way.

It was a wrong post after all. A fish merchant dumped the whole bucket of bloody organ into the sewer, the irresponsible and disgusting way locals always do, and the next she knew was she ran through the landslide of hefty tuna head and sharp gigantic bones to any direction that doesn’t have death befallen from the sky.

And then she hit my leg.

I was flabbergasted. She was smaller than my foot, easily will be carried away by the current of an entire pail thrown atop and around her.

I pick her up, instinctively, regardless of dripping blood and fish smell that she spattered as she struggled to get fish blood out of her nose. I wiped her eyes with my thumb, it took her a minute to blink slowly, as the sting on her eyes dissipate into air.

Then she was the one flabbergasted. She was in the grasp of a foreign human, humans who kicked her aside, intentionally or otherwise; humans who shoo her away for reasons she did not understand, if there was any such reason, humans who never lend her space, no matter how tiny it would take.

She struggled, and wiggled, and tried to mew, but she find the grasp stronger.

The fish merchant were sort of “oops” for failing to see there was kitten sitting at the edge of the sewer, but that’s it. They don’t care if she got carried away. They wouldn’t care if she was injured, they wouldn’t care if she dies or lives. They keep their eyes on my money.

They took the advantage and put their fake altruism to effect. “Poor cat! take it home! take it home!”

The female merchant gave me a plastic bag, but I am not grateful. She probably just give it out of a bit of mercy but not out of genuine care for other living being.

I took her home, using google speech to find something that I can grab fast to help her off her sickening bloody smell.

I spend the whole container (1.5 liter/3 pints) of tomato juice and the whole bottle of cat shampoo. Don’t mention the pail of warm water.

There is one ingredient that could have helped us work faster: salt. But salt need cold water; cats does not.

I need to call her three times, though not to the mirror, then she comes.

Her name is Bloody Mary, and she looks at you like Bloody Mary.

Even after she lives with us for a while, she never spoke much. She slip into my bed room, uninvited, set herself up by my leg, and follow me everywhere. No hi, no hello. No good morning, no good night.

She just sit there by the sideline when others made noise for food. She just sit there by the sideline when others play.
She just sit there by the sideline when others fight.

She just sit there by the sideline when other come and go, when I cry or smile, in richness or poorness, health or sickness.

She just sit there by the sideline looking at things and keep it in her heart, like Mary.

She just sit there by the sideline, but she come into my room and climb the bed to the side of ailing Donna.

She just sit there by the sideline but she come between fighting Cheetos and Honey and all is well in the world.

She just sit there by the sideline, watching her world goes round, and then she choose one lonely cat who needs her the most, and I will find her there, sitting by their side, grooming, sleeping, curling.

She just sit there by the sideline, and slip into my room again at night, after leaving it for a long time, setting herself by my leg, as I lay restlessly thinking what would best to do, since we didn’t even make half of what we need for the week to come.

I found her this morning, sitting on the sideline, watching me.

“Good morning, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary” then I chuckled.

She mews back. She is seven months old now but she mews instead of meows.

“Hey, you answered!” I pat her head. She never talk back to me no matter what I ask. “Would that mean I have good luck today?”

She mews again, and jump out of my bed, waiting by the door.

I opened it and she went to the front window. Outside is the same old world, starting a brand new day.

~ Josie

Bloody Mary is right. Whatever is ahead of us, we don’t have any choice. For better or worse, we just live it another day. Wise. paypal.me/whiskerssyndicate

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Josie And The Whiskers' Syndicate

The first and only cat refuge in Bandung (West Java - Indonesia) a capital breeder of a nation without animal welfare law. We care for Bandung's unwanted animals, operate a TNR as much as our budget allows, and continue to educate people about compassion to animals

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