She said, she loves cats; of all colours, of all sort of fur.
She said, she cares. Feeds them, takes them to the vet, loves them till the end.
And then she told me about a particular cat. Always comes first, always leaves last.
And then she told me one day the cat stopped eating. She just sat there, waiting, longing.
And then she told me the cat is getting weaker, and that one day she cannot even open her mouth.
She told me she feels sorry for the cat, so she took the cat to a free vet clinic for the poor, all the way across town in her car.
She told me the vet said the cat has Panleukopenia virus, and that panleuk has no cure, so there was nothing to be done.
She told me she was given a perscription, but never had time to procure the medicine.
She told me she doesn’t have the money; she has other things she wants to buy.
She told me she just keeps giving the cat wet food, sometimes raw egg, but the cat wouldn’t eat. She cannot walk, she just sleeps all day.
She told me she put the cat in a box, keeps giving her food, but then, that’s all.
I told her: Send the cat to me.
And she drove the cat early in the morning, in clean, trendy clothing, full make up, riding a fancy motorcycle.
She dropped the carrier on the livingroom, and went around the shelter.
She told me she wants to adopt a cat from us, and she wants only the long haired cat, the Persian mix breed, the Angora. She didn’t even look at the domestic cats, even though those she denied existence greet her as if she is their own.
I led her through the door, with smile and pats on the back.
I let the carrier door open, and the sickly cat came gingerly out and sat near my knee.
I extended my hand, and she rubs her cheek ever so gently.
I rub her, and clean the dust and dirt off her back. I gave her a soft and fluffy bed, but she choose my bamboo chair.
She didn’t have Panleukopenia. She didn’t even have diarrhea. She was just malnourished, filled with parasites, and an acute upper respiratory infection.
I gave her antibiotics, I keep her warm and comfortable.
I mashed food to a creamy texture, and she ate three plates of baby food.
The next morning when I woke up, she was there in front of the door.
Her eyes were tired, her breaths were weak, but she sat there, looking at me.
I put my finger on my lips. Everyone else was still sleeping.
We slipped into my studio, with a little plate of steamed fish, and she ate all of the bits, and left the plate clean and dry.
I gave her flea medication. I combed her short and coarse fur, and removed as much parasite as possible. I wiped her clean with waterless bath; I gave her a bowl of kitty milk.
I gave her medicine every day. I mixed vitamins and immune boosters with every meal.
When she told me how much she missed “the little cat on my porch” so much, I gave her a picture: of cleaner, better cat that she refused to value just because fur hair is not fluffy and that she is not pretty.
Every time she popped on Messenger, I sent her a picture: of a cat she said she cared about, but never properly fed; of a cat she brought to the vet, but neglected to give medicine. Of a cat who loves and appreciated her as if an angel, but was looked down upon because she was stray.
She told me she can never hold a cat, and when she cradled them anyway, any cat will squirm and jump away.
Just a little bit more, baby. When you are all clean and chubby and healed and and happy, I will send her a photo. I will send her a picture of me, cradling you in my arms.
I will send her a picture of you, sitting with bosom puffed and eye full of confidence.
I will send her a picture of you, in all the glory of the love you once offered her: the purest, the most. The one she discarded and demeaned, the one I am honored to receive.
I will avenge you seven fold
Help me make “Patience”, our newest resident a real cat again, and avenge her seven fold.
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