You are born but at first you don’t see. It’s suddenly too cold and not damp enough. You are on the concrete, waiting for your turn to be licked clean. Mom cleans you up, things start looking up but it’s still dark. You snuggle up to mom, maybe it’s not that bad after all. You decide to sleep on it for a few weeks in between milk time.
Then you open your eyes.
All the voices have a shape, shapes that pass you by. Mom is still around though, and it’s October.
You wake up on October 30th, mom is not there. It is unnatural, you assumed she would always be there. She’s gone. You watch the shapes, hear the voices. It starts raining. You have a place to go, but you always followed. There is noone to follow. You take the leap, not of faith but of death, a shape with a creaking sound runs you over. No, it’s not painful, it’s beyond that.
You open your eyes, like you did in September for the first time. Shapes move around you, they talk about you, not for long, because they always have something more important to do. They decide on a date, next week on November 10, you will be put to sleep. If you knew about them, you would hate euphemisms. But you’re asleep already, and you are just a kitten. Your hind legs don’t work. You can actually move one of them. But they don’t see that. You are happy, though, you are happy it’s warm, you are happy there’s food and water, you are happy because someone touches you once in a while. Actually, you are happy because sometimes they look at you and that’s good enough. It’s November 9, you open your eyes to another day of happiness. It will end in two days. You start purring.
It’s November 10, you see a new shape, loud voices, you start purring. That’s the only argument you have against your own execution. The new shape approaches you. You are covered in your own shit. That’s why noone touches you, but you purr for the prospect.
You are placed in a box, it feels bumpy. You fall asleep.
It’s November 11. One of your hind legs work. You have a home waiting for you in California. You almost died. You have no idea. You open your eyes and you purr.
Before Dolores can go home, she needs intensive care and treatment for her infected wounds and the nerve compression in her leg. After a final operation in two weeks, she will have a wonderful life where she will be able to open her eyes every single day for the rest of her life. But this is only possible if you give us a hand. We cannot let Dolores down.
Please help us with Dolores’s treatment and flight expenses. She needs you.