Earlier this year, when I rushed that jam packed alley all the way to the mountain, it was just another rescue.
It was just another faceless call, nameless message, asking for help for a kitten crushed by car, and that no one there done anything except for a housewife and his son with compassion.
That golden kitten mopped his long, glorious fur all the way along the street where he crawled dragging half his fractured body around, just to stay alive, and his mother nearby can do nothing but watch helplessly, the little life she brought to the world, ended nothing but a little more than pitiful sight in a small alley just behind the sparkling high class venues and residence mere steps away.
The Whiskers’ Syndicate ladies and gentlemen, who rallied for that little boy to have his multiple surgery, would later call him: Tiger. He didn’t look like a tiger, he didn’t sound like a tiger, but he has the heart and soul of the king of all tigers.
Two months into his recovery from all the pins and stitches that made him look like a grisly monster, comparable to Freddie Krueger and Chucky combined, he died of Panleukopenia.
The bleeding wound still fresh and raw even half a year later, took acid when that same housewife and her son sent another message calling for help, this time for Tiger’s mother, who cannot stop bleeding. The men of the house don’t like cats, they only tolerate her short presence in honor of the lady and the young man, so I know my time is not lengthy.
In the darkness of the night, through the tightly packed, sparkling road for the elite, I rushed down with a basket that slowly soaked wet with blood, and a young female cat who no longer had anything to lose.
It was Tiger’s sibling who never meant to be, trapped between undead and the afterlife, slowly killing his mother, helpless to pass him on.
This time, she went without much fanfare, unlike the child that brought the world to his plight. She stayed with us for two weeks, has surgery to remove her infection, and when she healed, we all not sure whether we should return her to the street.
She has nothing but a short presence on the porch of that tiny house, enough for food and water, before the men of the house banish her for the rest of the day.
To prevent disagreement, she was given a small lodge on the roof of the house, out of sight, though not out of mind. I have nothing more to give but a new carrier, 10 lbs of food, a pillow and small message that the lady will never need to worry about cat food.
My favorite poet said, It’s rain that grow flowers, no thunder.
And the other adds, that indeed water does not cut through rock with its power, but with its persistence.
Tiger’s mother does not roar. She just sat there in silence, at the corner of the room. She maintained her composure in that small side of her new world.
Her name, in local language, with a pun intended, means “Beautiful Girl”
And as her new life unfold, its ripples touch other hearts.
First the dad, then the grand dad.
These days, she will sit at the leg of the dad every morning, for a little milk. She will sat close to the dad when he came home from a long day, to comfort. Throughout, a touch of humor and laughter for the elder dad.
These days, that hate turns to love. That indifference turn to compassion.
She opens a secret of how Tiger got his luxurious golden long hair, flowing like silk in the wind: it’s hers.
She told the secret of how Tiger had a pair of round eyes, beautiful face, and the stature of a king, it was hers. Had he survived, he would have been spitting image of his mother.
And then, she told the secret of the universe. Everything happened for a reason. That the heart breaking story of her son is only part of the story.
That the penultimate happy ending, at least in a small part of this world, belongs to a little stray cat looking for love.
“Raise your words, not voice. It is rain that grows flowers, not thunder.”
Third picture is Meng Geulis (pronounced mang-gou-liss) on the day of her rescue. The other three are her pictures 6 months after her recovery.