The stray cat crouched lower in the shadow of the market stall, his fur the color of dust and shadows, blending seamlessly with the grimy surroundings. He watched the humans bustling by, their quick glances rarely lingering on his small, huddled form. His left ear was torn, a jagged reminder of a past scuffle, and a thin scar snaked across his nose, a permanent mark from a life lived on the unforgiving streets of Vietnam.
He often heard the whispers, the quick shooing motions, the averted gazes. Sometimes, a bolder child would point and giggle, their words sharp like tiny stones. And in those moments, a deep ache would settle in his small feline heart. He would look down at his dirty paws, at his matted fur, and a silent question would form in his emerald eyes: “Do you think I’m ugly? I don’t feel beautiful.”
He saw the pampered cats, the ones with glossy coats and jeweled collars, perched regally in doorways or being carried in soft baskets. They were admired, cooed over, their every meow met with a loving response. He would watch them, a pang of longing mixed with a sense of his own inadequacy. Their sleek beauty seemed a world away from his rough, street-worn appearance.
He tried to keep himself clean, licking his fur whenever he found a quiet moment, but the dust of the city clung to him relentlessly. The scraps of food he managed to find often left him with a greasy coat and an unpleasant smell. He knew he didn’t look like those other cats, the ones who seemed to effortlessly command affection.
Sometimes, a kind hand would offer a small piece of fish or a bowl of water. In those fleeting moments of generosity, a spark of hope would flicker within him. Perhaps, despite his appearance, there was still a chance for kindness. But then the hand would withdraw, the person would move on, and he would be left alone again, the question echoing in his mind.
He had seen his reflection in the murky puddles of the rainy season. A small, gaunt face stared back, with wary eyes and a body that bore the marks of hardship. He didn’t see the sleekness or the pampered look he observed in other felines. All he saw was a scruffy survivor, a creature constantly on guard, his beauty hidden beneath layers of street life.
He longed for a gentle touch that wasn’t followed by a shooing motion, a kind word that wasn’t a command to leave. He yearned for a place where he wouldn’t have to constantly worry about his next meal or the next threat. He dreamed of a soft bed and a pair of loving hands that would stroke his fur without judgment.
Perhaps, somewhere deep inside, a flicker of his kittenhood remained, a memory of a time before the harshness of the streets etched its mark on him. Maybe then, before the torn ear and the scarred nose, he had felt beautiful, worthy of affection. But now, as he huddled in the shadows, the weight of his appearance pressed down on him. “Do you think I’m ugly?” his silent heart would whisper into the bustling chaos of the Vietnamese marketplace. “Because sometimes, when I look in the puddle, that’s all I see.” And the loneliness would deepen, a familiar ache in his small, resilient soul.
