He limped up to my front porch as I arrived home a few hot Carolina evenings ago. He had two puncture wounds on either side of his spine from which blood oozed and a big patch of hair had been ripped out. His entire head was covered in scabbed over wounds and a sizeable piece of one ear was missing. He looked like he hadn't seen a meal in weeks as he flopped onto the concrete.
Oh crap, I thought.
I don't want another cat.
They find me, you see. Cats in need, I mean. It's like some kind of scent trail that leads to my exact location. And I am REALLY tired of cleaning up other people's messes.
Last fall, it was the black and white kitten that someone had literally thrown out of their car window at our office gate. We are the only building on a dead-end interstate service road next to a reservoir and the gate apparently says, "Hey scumbags, please dump your unwanted felines here." His claws and pads lost in asphalt burns, this cuddly young thing had hobbled up to our parking area and was hiding inside a truck engine. He was asleep in my lap in five minutes.
He eventually went to live a pampered life with my technician's mother. Then there was the trio of friendly orange kittens (also pitched by our gate) that I took to my vet's rescue clinic. The same clinic kindly accepted the darling calico I found in a tree outside Pizza Hut (we called her Pepperoni). Another black and white snuggler, dirty and wormy and maybe five weeks old, leaped on my hands from a bush when I stopped to move a box turtle out of the road; he now lives with a co-worker. I am still convinced that one left the turtle out as bait for a soft-hearted sucker like me.
So by the time this torn-up orange tomcat presented himself at my door, yeah, I was sick of having to do the responsible thing because someone else couldn't be bothered. My bank account certainly had no wiggle room!
I thought (hoped) he might run off and save me the trouble. He looked up at me and started to purr.
Crap.
"Ok, mister," I told him with a sigh. "I can't very well leave you here in 95 degree heat with deep, bleeding punctures and a busted up leg. Here's the deal: if you let me pick you up and take you inside, I will try to help you."
Please run away, please run away, I thought.
I have no money and two cats of my own already that I have to protect from god-knows-what diseases you have.
He hung limp in my arms as I scooped him up and unlocked the door. He was a big cat, twice the size of mine, but he weighed next to nothing. As I cautiously opened the door, he caught sight of my cats and I braced myself for the inevitable filleting of my arms which I knew was about to occur.
Nothing. He just hung there and sighed a little.
I put him in my guest bathroom with some water, kibble, and litter. I know he must be starved and dehydrated. He half-heartedly lapped a few sips of water and then climbed into the bathtub and, in two minutes, fell asleep in front of me.
He was so exhausted, he spent the next two days hardly budging from the tub except for the occasional snack and drink. When I came in, he limped over and leaned against me to be petted, his rumbling purr vibrating his whiskers. He was filthy and left brown pawprints all over the tub but I couldn't hold it against him as I raged against the human species who left him to this fate.
He looked like a dog had picked him up and shaken him and it was obvious he had been fighting for his life. He had a mess of worms and nasty ears. But his eyes were clear and he wanted nothing more than to crawl into my lap.
After a day at the vet getting neutered and shot and cleaned and tested, it was clear kitty had magical powers: he could rack up amazing bills without moving a muscle. When they informed me that he was free of heartworms/feline leukemia/FIV, I was shocked that he'd managed to stay clean.
He's been in my house for two weeks now. Completely submissive, when one of my cats whacked him on the nose, he flopped over on his side and stared at her, simply waiting to be accepted. Last night, he crawled across the bed and laid down at my side. He pressed his back into my ribcage and stretched out, nestling his head into the space between my shoulder and neck. His purrs came faster than he could breathe and I wondered at his ability to love and trust the same animal that dumped him, as he had obviously been a housecat before.
No, this has nothing to do with Solo and little to do with horses, but this cat's story compelled me to share it. So many animals have an amazing capacity to forgive, to give us second and third and fourth chances that we clearly don't deserve. They heal and move on seemingly without a backward thought.
Some stories have a happy ending. This particular orange cat is completely available (you know you want him!) but if no one takes him, he is safe with me. Many more stories don't end so well. The thoughtlessness of the masses is quite content to leave animals of all sorts to the four winds of the fates, no matter how they suffer. After all, who cares what happens, it doesn't affect us, right? I guess not, if you have no soul or compassion at all.
So take a minute, give your lucky animals a hug. And I hope you can find it in you to take your time and money, however scarce or invisible, and offer a bit of help to all those critters out there who need it so badly. Even if it's just clicking our friends at
The Animal Rescue Site, the animals need us to step up. Volunteer at your local dog/cat/horse rescue, donate money (even $5 helps), donate stuff you don't use anymore, etc. Because if we don't help them, no one else will.
