Norman Reedus dropped his flight and bought a ten thousand dollars car so he can rescue a cat and drove them to the set and shoot for the next episode.
I hoped it was that lucky cat and Giddy.

He’d look perfectly on set. He walks like the undead, he looks like the undead, he sounds like the undead. Whether he was hit by vehicle and left to die, or survived a long untreated sickness, Giddy had his nerves wrecked enough to live with nerve ticks so bad, he wobbles when he move. He tipped over when he walks. He couldn’t bend his knee for long, so he sleeps sitting up, and he still wobbles from side to side even when he sleeps.

When he eats, he is a rock star; hard-rock star. The ones who picks up a note on their fancy guitar and throw their head up and down like crazy. Giddy picks up his food, and he chews his favored piece of chicken breast up and down I’d think that head will fall off and rolls away.

His ultimate Zen, though. Whether the storm is raging or Mozart is playing, whether I whisper softly or scream madly, Giddy will sit there with his eyes closed and nose up feeling the wind breeze.
He’d watch the world goes by and be at ease. He’d see the day turns around and be at peace.

He sat firmly a little bit to the middle of the road, sleeping, not caring for the world that turns crazy as people honks and swear as they move around him.

Of course he was startled and angry when I swept him off in the middle of his bliss, he squinted and stared and slaps, as I carried him away.
Dude, how do you live that way.

He is deaf and he can only watch as the world turns away.

I hope he sat by that road and Norman Reedus find him a way. He’d have a good life and great care, he’d have love and misery taken away.

Two days watching him follows me when I work at the shop. More days watching him wobble; sometimes slamming his nose to the pile of cat food, sometimes dunking his face into his water bowl, picking the right box of cat food, climbing it with his best effort, and rock himself to sleep on top of his little chosen world.
In one short year of his life he’s been through everything. He was born to a loving mother, he was taken away from that comfort and dumped to the market, he got the curse of ignorant men, or endure the torture of severe illness on his own, or both. He lived through starvation and thirst. He survived pain and torture. He suffered rejection and harsh treatment. Perhaps he’d let God take his hearing so he can live a little bit more.

Live a little bit more where there is no riot, no chaos. Live a little bit more without hearing the jest and the mock. Live a little bit more where it’s enough to see the kicks and slaps coming, and be on his way.
Maybe he’d take that life solemnly so that when death finally come, he’d rest in peace.
Maybe that’s why it’s me. A rescue of middle class who works morning to morning so he can eat. Maybe that’s why it’s me; a nobody, so he’s away from intricate world that doesn’t matter anyway.
Maybe that’s why it’s me, because Norman Reedus won’t have time to sit by him and let him lean on him as we enjoy the sunset in peace, feel the wind blow over the balcony, watch the bird prance but not involved in their preach.

I don’t have ten thousand Dollar car, I don’t have name over Hollywood star.

I only have boxes of cat food of various sizes to sit tall. I have fresh water and food. I have home, caring friends.

And I have Giddy to tell me: That should be all.

~ Josie

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Josie And The Whiskers' Syndicate

The first and only cat refuge in Bandung (West Java - Indonesia) a capital breeder of a nation without animal welfare law. We care for Bandung's unwanted animals, operate a TNR as much as our budget allows, and continue to educate people about compassion to animals

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