My name doesn’t matter, because no one has ever called me by one. I’ve been in this shelter for as long as I can remember, sitting quietly in the same cold corner, listening to the sounds of footsteps that never seem to stop at my cage. I was born blind. I’ve never seen a sunrise, never seen the face of a human, never seen myself. But I’ve felt things—warmth, fear, hunger, and sometimes… hope. When I was younger, I believed that someone would come for me. I imagined a soft voice, a gentle hand, a name whispered just for me. I imagined curling up in someone’s lap, purring quietly as they stroked my back and told me I was a good kitty. But the days passed, then months, and then years. I’ve heard the excited yelps of puppies finding families. I’ve heard the joyful cries of children meeting their new kittens. I’ve heard laughter, promises, and keys jangling as the doors opened for others—never for me. Sometimes, I hear them stop at my cage. They whisper, “Oh… poor thing. He’s blind.” Some sound sad. Some just move on. One child once said, “He looks scary. His eyes are strange.” That night, I cried silently in my corner. I didn’t even know what I looked like. My reflection lives only in their reactions. Am I really that strange? That frightening? That… ugly? I curled my tail around my body and asked myself, for the hundredth time, “Is it because I’m too ugly that no one can love me?” I try to be good. I listen. I never cause trouble. When the volunteers bring food, I rub my head gently against their hand to say thank you. But they’re always in a hurry. They don’t stay long. On my birthday last week—not that anyone knew—it rained hard outside. The shelter was quiet. I curled up under the blanket in my cage and pretended I was in a home, hearing rain from a window, lying on a couch. I imagined someone whispering, “Happy birthday, sweetheart.” But all I heard was thunder. They say cats don’t cry, but I did that night. I cried for every family that passed me by. I cried for every little kitten who found a home while I remained invisible. And I cried because, deep inside, I still wanted to believe that someone out there could look beyond my cloudy eyes and see the soul inside. I’m not just a blind cat. I’m a quiet companion. I’m a warm body on cold nights. I’m a heart full of love, waiting… always waiting. So if you ever visit a shelter, and you see me sitting there—still, silent, maybe a little odd-looking—please don’t turn away. Reach out your hand. Let me show you that love doesn’t need eyes to see. Because even if I’m not perfect, even if the world says I’m not beautiful, I still dream of being loved.
