One cat learned to climb our laundry room and show it off to the other 89 cats.
The next morning we see six butts shades from under the conservatory roof as we had our morning tea.
In the afternoon we see about eight, and the next day, it seems like half the whole cattery had their butts spotting on the warm fiberglass roof every now and then.
We had fun counting all the butt spots then, then having a great time guessing whose butt was it that we saw on that corner or this corner.
But then one of the other neighbor texted and complained about cats lounging on her roof and she will not want to stand their smelling faeces on her ceiling.
I went two houses over and saw builders taking down rain-stained ceiling and some dried out, bone white faecal remains. Those we all see in ancient leftovers in long abandoned houses.
And none of the mobsters ever climbed the roof until at most three days ago.
Do I have to argue? Some people won’t change their mind once they are set on blaming animals, even though those blackish molds on their ceiling smells stronger than the sewer just outside their house.
Still, something needs to be done with that tempting glass roof before some vile neighbor solve their ridiculous assumption in their own hands and mobsters start vanishing.
We here all know about people with sacks and muffled cries at night, roaming around before some cats were missing or some new one crying in the neighborhood losing their way around.
I know more about the pain of losing Cali and get him back out of sheer luck, just to see him dead two weeks later, because he did not get proper medication through his stray days.
And I haven’t seen Kaka for two or three days now.
He used to play in an empty lot across the street, and come home at night with dandelions all over his body, which he lovingly shared with our shirts and shorts. He used to chase lizards and moles out of fun, and no harm done except for all the grasses he stepped and rolled over.
If he is thirsty he went home, if he is hungry he went home. He knows he is the next mama’s boy and he doesn’t have to hunt nor beg for his well being. All he needs is looking at me (or the new caretaker) straight in the eye, and meow once.
But following his frantic, muffled, meows that the wind carries to add our worry did not turn into any fruitful find, though we keep on trying, and we keep on looking, and we keep on asking. Door to door, person to person. We are ready to beg for forgiveness and fall down to our knee if we have to, but we want our big brother back at all cost.
Late at night, what we got is this little guy; white and brown tabby, Crying and crying and crying somewhere inside car engine parked across the street; the car that belongs to the grandson of the old woman who always gives us trouble with her running mouth.
If I asked permission, I will have yet another trouble, so I just sneaked my way to under the car and retrieved him.
But even after he was well fed and choose his accidental new bed to curl up and release all his nerve wreck, we still hear that frantic meow.
We know it was Kaka. No one else calls that way but him.
So there we are, eleven twenty five near midnight, scaling around the corner once more.
This time, I saw that dark shadow bouncing from inside the parked car, and although my caretaker said it’s impossible, I turn my cellphone flashlight on and saw Kaka with is two paws on the window and horror on his face.
My caretaker ran to the house and bang the door. Even though she is a petite woman, she is no less fierce than me. She talked in composure and courtesy, but there was the hidden threat just like a cat’s growl when one tried to steal her baby.
There were many reasons, and some are legit. Kaka might be curious and slipped into the car when the owners left the door open too long; but that car has been parked there the whole day and we only heard the meowing from the evening.
I remember about Cali and how he lounged only around the front yard, and he still ended up missing and dumped somewhere.
I did not want to take anymore risk so I am cleaning the street from Sierra and other mobsters, including the aging Hanshin, and stuff all the climbing cats into the house until I have enough money to fix that conservatory roof.
Those days were our past two weeks leading to today, when fund comes only from a handful of our supporters (hint: less than ten) and Christine Alice’s fundraising page.
Food has been so meager in the bowl and everybody lost a stone or two.
All of a sudden we have about twenty five cats stuffed into thirty six square meters (387 sqft) house.
All of a sudden we have to sneak in and out of our own house so no one will burst out of the door and risk their lives. Cats are jerks and they just can’t listen to any reason even for their life’s sake.
All of a sudden cats start getting sick, and the more cats learned to climb and roam around, the more cats canned inside the house.
The more cats get sick, the more cats got angry, the more cats try to kill each other.
Our house will become living hell and cramped torture chamber until we can fix the roof, whenever God be merciful and fund becomes available.
Our piece of sanity comes from this little guy, who will not stop entertaining us by force with all his cutesy antics.
He is person’s cat. He made sense of all tension and cool down nerves gone tight, man and cats alike.
He follows us everywhere and will not see another day without us in his sight.
His name is Hachi.
For the time being he is healthy and happy, though probably won’t be for long if we just keep locking the cats inside to prevent death from snatching them.
We have had too many ripped from me lately, that any reasons or sense no matter how acceptable no longer acceptable.
I have had too many ripped from me lately, in cruelest of manners, that I will do my best (as usual) and many more to keep that sparkling eyes and sassy tabby alive to see the adulthood of his days.
Maybe ten Dollars at a time, maybe not, but as long as I rise, I will try to make him shine.