Hello…
My name is Lucky well, I no longer remember it. Maybe I never had one. I’ve been called “Stray,” “Shoo,” and sometimes just “Cat.” But I like to think that, if I had someone to love me, they would have given me a beautiful name—something soft and kind.
Right now, I am lying beneath a broken wooden bench in a quiet park. The sun has barely risen, but I’m already trembling. My fur, once fluffy and clean, is now matted with dirt. My bones poke out under my skin, and each breath I take feels like a battle. I haven’t eaten properly in days. My legs feel weak. My stomach aches. And the cold bites harder each night.
I think I’m very sick. I don’t know what’s wrong, only that my body is giving up. I don’t want to sleep anymore, because I fear that if I do, I might not wake up.
People pass by me every day. Some don’t see me. Some look at me with pity. A few toss me scraps—bless their hearts—but most just keep walking. I don’t blame them. I’m just a dirty, sick cat on the street. But deep down, I wish someone would stop. I wish someone would look me in the eye and say, “You matter.”
This morning, I used the last of my strength to crawl toward the park’s entrance, where people gather with their coffee cups and morning routines. I sat near the bench, curled up tightly, trying to keep warm. When a kind-looking woman walked by, I meowed softly—more like a whisper than a sound. She turned. Her eyes met mine.
And so I said it—not in words she could hear, but in the only way I knew how, with my eyes, with my trembling little body, with every ounce of my fading life:
“I am very ill. Can you bless me?”
Can you bless me with a warm touch? With a piece of food? With a soft word? Can you bless me with love—even just a little—before I slip away from this world unnoticed?
She stopped. She knelt down. I felt her hand gently stroke my head. It had been so long since anyone had touched me that I flinched at first. But her touch was warm. Kind. I leaned into it, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I purred.
She called someone on her phone. I didn’t understand her words, but her tone was urgent, full of care. She wrapped me in her scarf and held me close. I was so tired. But for once, I didn’t feel afraid. I felt… safe.
At the animal clinic, they placed me on a soft blanket. They gave me medicine and warmth. The kind woman stayed by my side, stroking my fur, whispering, “You’re okay now, sweetheart. You’re safe.”
I don’t know how much time I have left. Maybe days. Maybe weeks. But now, I am not alone. I have a name—she calls me “Miracle.” And when I look into her eyes, I see the blessing I prayed for.
So if you ever see someone like me, lying quietly in the shadows of your busy world, I beg you—look closer. Maybe we can’t speak your language, but our eyes will always ask the same question:
“I am very ill… Can you bless me?”
Because sometimes, a small act of kindness is the greatest miracle of all.
