Is life. Maybe a chance, maybe love, a little bit of extra blanket, a roof over their head, warm food, clean drinking water.
For the time being, though – life.
From last Thursday to this Thursday, our lifelines have been filled with grim news, sad stories and bad endings; one cat after another.
We found the kitty miller chap Thursday night, sitting literally in the middle of the road, waiting to die. He didn’t care if moving tires were just millimetres off the tip of his ears, he didn’t care if people kicked him, though with the good intention of getting him off the street, he did not resist when I picked him up from behind, probably thinking I will be the one who will deal him the last blow that will part him from his pain.
He was dehydrated, and he has an Upper Respiratory Infection. We brought him home, hydrated him, gave him the best food we had, and the medicine to the best of our availability.
He got better for one day, ate and drank like mad; we took just one breath, and found out there was hardened faeces stuck inside. Well, he had been dehydrated for so long.
We took him to the vet and did everything by the doctor’s order, but nothing came out. He keeps eating, drinking, but it only make his unfinished business longer, creeping and filling all the way up his intestine.
There is only one way left: surgery, but with his condition at that time, he wouldn’t have survived.
We left him at the vet, so he can have intensive care, which he would not get with us, because as much as we care about him, we have over one hundred others who share only the two of us. Besides, it is safer for him to stay at the clinic, preventing possible infection due to his weakened state.
Bad news: the hardened stool is one thing, his kidney failing is the whole lot of other things.
For the time being, he is making his small steps forward.
As we left the clinic, I brought up about this tiny house (actually it is more of a cube) from a wooden crate left across the street, a cat who often packs herself inside, and as of late, some kittens who did not look so good. I know Sheilla will follow me, so I followed my instinct and cross the street.
At the porch of that SOHO building a young mother was trying to nurse three horrible looking kittens. Two one-month old, bald, crusty with yeast and skin infection, and whatever sickness that turned them into skeletons, and another one, possibly the only survivor of a previous litter.
She was so weak she cannot even lift her head.
There was an empty, dusty, filthy, dry feeding bowl nearby. An empty pouch of Whiskas, a dry, grimy water bowl.
We found another baby, also one month old, stranded on the porch of the next building; seemingly wandering around and got lost.
So, we went to the clinic with a kidney failure cat, and went home with a fainting mother and four goblin-looking kittens.
Friday morning, on my way to buy fish and medicine, I dropped by the ATM and was curious about a bottled water box in the corner
Inside was a mother with four newborn kittens. She was afraid, but she cannot run away. She was determined to attack whoever was trying to harm her little treasures; instead she let me touch her head, rub her cheek, and off I went with another box of cats.
Going back out to get my things done, I passed by a pitiful baby walking alone along the road. She knows this world for just eight weeks, but not enough to find herself a nook where she can make herself a living; so she looked up, and begged to whoever passed her by.
But no one gives a damn.
Another reroute then.
She has some respiratory problem; and her stamina is bad. She is lethargic, she is un-spirited, she sits there all the time watching other kittens, she vomits often; unfortunately it will take a while to find out what is going on in her system,
On Friday night going home from the colony, we found another eight weeks-old kitten, which lay dying out of starvation and respiratory infection under a barbecue burner just by the roadside. It was biting cold and he wouldn’t survive on his own, so we took him in as well.
Saturday morning at the parking lot of the market, she tried to brush away fleas off her tiny figure. Whenever someone passed, she will follow her potential patron telling stories of her short days gone by.
Who will listen to her? Nobody even listens to each other anymore
Well, we do, especially after a passerby kicked her into the underside of a vehicle.
By then I don’t want to go outside anymore. Otherwise I’d probably go home with cats enough to make another shelter; it’s the start of kitty season anyway.
Sunday morning when people go to church, spending time with friends and family, exercise, or have a hangover from last party or bar to quench their thirst, I was browsing job openings for a freelance anything.
These cats; I didn’t know what they do wrong,and they most likely never know what happened either,
I only know that just like me, they just want to mind their own business, living their lives, raising their children,
They do not need a mansion, they do not need fancy clothing, they don’t belong to moving vehicles.
They just want the chance to continue their lives; the lives cut off by the cruelty of men who are supposed to guard and protect them.
In exchange, they will lay their hopes, love, lives, and the future of their family in our hands.
Will we answer their call?