When the wind blows I will hear him cry; sometimes long and far, sometimes close by, but I can’t see him.
Even at the first cry I would rush to the front and down the stairs to the fence and found nothing. Just a cry of a kitten carried away by the wind.
For days and nights the cry just soared up into the sky, further and further, suddenly change direction with the wind, and then closer and closer, and then disappear.
Soon I no longer dashed to the door to look, I thought it was the white and yellow girl from the park who never stop crying either. I was sure that it was not her, I was sure that it came from outside, but I cannot tell, and the only one I found crying was only her, so I must be mistaken.
Two days later the meowing was gone. There was no more cry, there was only silence at the cold night, up and down the mountains, when the street cats stayed huddled under the bushes on the roadside, or try to brace the night under the stone benches of the graveyard.
It was the calm before the storm.
It was the calm before the storm because in another two days the crying kitten was so loud I couldn’t have mistaken it as the white and yellow kitten from the park. She was there with me, in my studio, watching me strip to naked as I prepared to get my morning bath.
I kept looking at her, making sure, she keeps looking at me, moving her ears, her round eyes wonder.
Ah, gender, gender. If I was male people won’t throw a fit watching me running outside bare chested with boxers.
I grabbed my shorts. I grabbed my shirt back. I tried to put everything back on while the cry hit higher and higher pitch.
And then when I was finally outside, it disappeared.
I looked at all the outdoor cats: Hanshin, Theoden, Sierra. Tabby was trotting her happy feet after her short journey around the mountain, and is glad to see me out because it means she doesn’t have to wait or scratch the door for her welcome treat and drink.
Tabby was leaping when the cry pierced the sky again, just when she landed on the base of the stairs; her ears twitching, her eyes round and big.
I went upstairs to the porch and got back down with a pouch of Whiskas; I squeeze the pouch and tear the pocket right outside the pump house;
And this yellow kitten with dirty white socks came outside crying, even as he gobbled down the food in a paper plate in front of him.
I asked the neighbors and no one knows him. I asked the residential cluster behind mine and no one claims him.
I put him in a net bag and let him scream his lungs out as I walked up and about the mountain but no one claim him. I let him come close to various female cats and the ladies won’t touch him.
I went back home with him and get him inside because the rain is crazy outside, and he sat there by the window, calling and calling, four days and four nights.
He won’t let me touch him, he won’t let me get nearer than an arm’s length, he won’t eat, he won’t drink, he won’t sleep. He only sit there by the window and calling, calling, crying.
I can’t understand him. Thelma can’t understand him, Libby failed to understand him though she is the most patient in sitting next by and listen to all his stories.
One day on the sixth morning I saw him sitting underneath the table and gave us a peek. I knew he was looking for a spot somewhere in the middle of three rows of kitties waiting for their breakfast.
At night he slipped to the middle of the cracked and dried plastic cabinets looking for a conspicuous space somewhere in the middle of three rows of kitties waiting for their dinner.
When I was home from the colony, near 11 at night, it appeared to me that he followed me into my room and hide beneath a pile of books.
I pretended I didn’t know, and Julia was busy to get me to lay down so she can hog me for herself, so I turned out the light and went sleep.
In the morning I found him nearby, on my bed, fighting his hardest against the gravity that pulls his eyelid to the ground.
When I went out of the room to start the day he followed me and back on the window, calling and crying. No food, no drink, just crying.
In the night again he sneaked in with me to my room, hiding under a pile of books.
In the morning I woke up to look at him straight in the eye, and he didn’t turn away.
In the next morning I found him fighting the hardest against the pride and fear that prevented him from letting lose. Instead he just extended his hands toward me, and retracted it if I tried to touch it.
On the sixth day, I found him curling by my side, although he won’t let me touch him yet, but he no longer try to fit in the middle of three rows of kitties waiting for their meal. He charged forward and eat until his tummy can’t hold it anymore.
Still during the day, he will be sitting by the window crying and calling.
No one knows him, no mother cat claimed him.
So he stays.
I hope soon enough, he will stop crying, and start living.