If God was a regular person in management, I’ll punch Him in the face.
He’d just shrug it off, I know, most probably just laugh. He knows he has a bad taste for humor.
In few hours time, we will be at the vet with Patti, and a kitten we found curling at the roadside of super busy intersection. On the other side of that intersection, just across the street of where the kitten was curling, is the entrance of Bandung’s busiest bus terminal.
The kitten was crushed on the hip, dragged to the roadside and left there in the open on her own. She was scorched by the hot paving by the day and frozen by the cold of the night. She is helpless against the creeping hunger and thirst as she endures the pain. She is defenseless against flu and pneumonia that rode along the dooms of her fate.
Her only escape to the slow painful death, was sleep.
I woke her up. I dropped my groceries with abandon and woke her up, craddled her in my arms, and let Sheilla deal with the rest. I only know I want to bring her home. I only know I want to charge forward, plunge into the battle for her life head first.
It must be long agonizing days that she spent on that pavement, because all the blood over her wound had dried out and start to crust.
But it must be heavenly bliss that her eyes suddenly turned bright when we lay her on a fluffy mat and bring her soft, warm food and fresh water.
It must be the call of hope that she cried when she saw Nightingale, calling for a mother.
It must be love when Nightingale, herself currently fighting cold, came and laid around her.
Look around the world. There is fear, and there is frustration. There are desperate people and some of them desolate enough to think the unthinkable; and I am no different. We are all no different. We feel the pain, we feel the fear, we have worries.
But then look around her. That tiny little stranger, unworthy next to nonexistence, keep one tiny hope and her prayers for pain relief was heard.
At least there is roof, at least there is food. And even though it’s not her own, at least she has the love of a mother.
And who am I again, blessed with so much power, so great strength, many devices, working brain and complete limbs adorned with health, dare to whine at life’s bad joke and cruel twists, while this speck of life holds herself with courage to the very last of her might, still vying for second chance?
I, like all human kind, have many prayers, and various needs, and endless demands for all the vanity in life and if any one of those is not granted I’d throw a tantrum like a two years old.
She has only one.
Only one: a chance for life; her birth right, that until now had been denied by us humans, who think we are important and grand enough to play God, and she doesn’t even throw half a fit.
Shame on me.
I will stop throwing tantrums and be silent.
Then one more time, I will pick her up, and be sure that her one prayer will be heard, and answered.