My name… doesn’t really matter. You can call me whatever you like. Most people don’t ask my name anyway. They just look at me, pause for a moment, and then quietly walk away.
I live in a small shelter at the edge of town. It’s not much, but it keeps me warm when it’s cold and dry when it rains. The volunteers here are kind—they feed me, clean my little space, and sometimes gently stroke my fur. But I can tell… even some of them are a little afraid to look too closely.
You see, I’m blind. My eyes are cloudy and scarred—once a soft amber, now milky white. When people come to the shelter looking for a pet, they glance into my cage and then quickly look away. Some whisper, “Poor thing,” others don’t say anything at all. But I hear their silence. I feel it in the way their footsteps move past me without stopping.
I want to ask them, “Do you find me scary when you look at me? Do you think I’m ugly?”
Because sometimes, it feels like they do.
But I wasn’t always like this. I used to be a kitten full of mischief, chasing dust motes in the sunlight, pouncing on crumpled paper, and curling up next to someone I thought would love me forever. I could see the world then—the way the light danced across the floor, the smiles on my human’s face, the gentle wag of a dog’s tail nearby. It was beautiful.
Then one day, something changed. My eyes began to hurt, and the world grew dim. I remember trying to find my food bowl and bumping into the wall instead. I remember my human’s voice growing more distant, more frustrated. And then… I remember being left alone. On the street. In the dark.
I don’t know how long I wandered before someone found me and brought me here. The pain has faded now, but my sight never came back. And still, when people look at me, I can feel the fear in their breath. Maybe it’s my eyes. Maybe it’s the way I don’t play like the other cats. Maybe it’s just that I look different.
But I want you to know something—I’m still me. I still feel the warmth of a loving touch. I still purr when someone speaks to me kindly. I still long for a home, for a name whispered gently in the quiet of the night. I still dream of curling up beside someone who doesn’t care that I can’t see them—someone who can see me instead, for who I really am.
I am not scary. I am not ugly. I am just a soul who’s been through more than most. I’ve lived through loss, through loneliness, through the darkness—both outside and inside—and I’m still here, waiting.
So if you ever visit my shelter, and your eyes meet mine, don’t look away. Sit with me for a moment. Let me nuzzle your hand. Let me show you that even without sight, I can love just as deeply. My heart still beats with the hope of being chosen—not out of pity, but because someone sees the beauty I hold within.
And if you can find it in your heart to love a cat like me, I promise—I will never stop loving you in return. Even if I never see your face, I will recognize you by your kindness. That’s how I see the world now—not with my eyes, but with the warmth of love.
Because no, I am not scary. I am not ugly.
I am just waiting to be seen—truly seen—for the first time.
