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The Cat

They are the page of life for us And we are the whole life for them

By Ford KiddPublished 2 years ago 3 min read
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His name was Cat. Just a Cat. Or "Hey, get out!" At least that's how the residents of the area addressed him.

He was of an inexplicable dirty gray color, short coarse hair fell out in places, exposing unprotected bald spots. The brutal street life left its mark on him. His muzzle was slashed in three places, one ear was half bitten off, and the tip of the other one hung dejectedly. Muddy green eyes constantly watered, dirt and disease accumulated in their corners.

The Cat was a fighter. From year to year, winter after winter, he defended his animal's right to live, tearing it out with teeth and claws. He had long forgotten how he ended up on the street. Whether he was a small kitten or already an adult cat. He did not remember the one who mercilessly threw him out the door. The face of this man merged and mingled with the faces of dozens of other people passing by indifferently. They hurried about their business, stomping through the puddles, pushing and disappearing into the veil of rain. The Cat followed their backs with wet eyes, hiding from the sharp cold drops under the visor of the flower stand.

His stomach was empty, clenching in spasms. The Cat no longer felt the cold, this feeling was replaced by hunger. Constant, bitter, cold like this autumn rain.

Sometimes someone stopped next to the dirty wet lump and gave him some food. The Cat adored the smell of that incredible stuff, the smell of FOOD. But this was never enough and quickly ended. The passer-by left, and the Cat was again left alone with his useless feline misfortune.

Most often, people simply turned away if they accidentally noticed him. Hastily. Trying to avoid the disturbing feeling of pity.

I met the Cat by chance.

He was sitting right in the middle of the road, his scratched nose buried in wet asphalt. As soon as I saw him, I realized he had come here to die. To this very place, simply because he had no more strength to go somewhere else. A silent creature that did not ask others for sympathy and pity, and does not accuse them of anything. Like an animal, he steadfastly and at the same time humbly died in front of dozens of people. And nobody stopped.

I remember the weight of his thin body. As soon as I lifted the Cat, he opened his closed eyes and silently pressed himself against my chest.

It was then that the thought occurred to me that this unloved, ugly creature was the most loving and forgiving animal I had ever met. And no matter that the cat was crippled, I saw his inner strength and beauty. He looked at me and believed that I could help him and stop his suffering. It was the Cat who told me about real compassion, which was talked about in many books or conversations among friends. For this, I will always be grateful to him. And if his body was crippled, then my soul became traumatized. And if most people want to have a beautiful figure and financial independence, then for me now the priority is to become as “ugly” as a dead Cat.

Remembering the stray cats we meet near garbage dumps, trade tents, trains, or other places. Probably, seeing off the eyes of people walking by, in their souls they hoped and believed in a miracle that they would be taken home or, in extreme cases, fed and caressed.

The cat lived a short life. But I like to think that at least the rest of his days he spent in our warmth. No longer afraid to stay hungry at night. Not looking for dry corners and cellars. I could give him more, I wish I could give him more. If only I had a little more time.

catdoghumanitywild animals
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About the Creator

Ford Kidd

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