I wasn’t always like this. There was once a time when I curled up beside warmth, where food was gently placed in front of me, and soft voices called my name. But those days feel like a dream now—distant, blurry, and impossible to reach, like chasing a ray of sunlight on a cloudy day.
Now, I have no parents. No family. No home to return to. I am just a shadow on the streets, a silent presence that slips through cracks and corners, trying to survive. I sleep beneath cars or in empty doorways. The cold air doesn’t care that I’m small and tired—it presses into me without mercy. When it rains, I curl tighter and hope the morning comes quickly.
I’m always hungry. Sometimes I find scraps in the garbage, but they smell bad, and they make my stomach hurt. Still, I eat because I have no choice. I’ve learned to be quiet, to keep my distance, because not everyone is kind. I’ve been kicked, chased, and shouted at more times than I can count. So I run before they even get close.
But sometimes, when I’m lucky, I see children laughing, playing with their pets. I stop and watch from afar. I imagine being in their arms, feeling safe, hearing someone say, “You’re mine.” Just those words… “my cat.” They sound so full of love.
I wonder what it’s like to belong.
People pass me by every day. Some notice me and look away quickly. Others whisper, “Poor thing,” but they don’t stop. Maybe it’s because of my appearance. My fur is matted and patchy. My eyes are tired. I’m not pretty like the cats in the pictures on calendars. I’m not soft or clean or playful. I’m just… me. A stray. A survivor.
But even though the world has forgotten me, I haven’t forgotten how to love. Deep inside me, there’s still a purr, hidden and quiet, waiting for someone to awaken it. I still dream of curling up on someone’s lap, of being stroked gently, of hearing kind words. I dream of a home with a window I can sit beside, and someone who doesn’t mind that I’m not perfect.
I don’t need much. Just a little space, a bowl of food, and someone to sit near when the world feels heavy. I promise to be gentle. I won’t complain. I’ll listen to your stories when you’re lonely. I’ll greet you at the door even when no one else does. I’ll love you in all the quiet ways that only a once-forgotten cat can.
I know I’m not beautiful.
I know I’m not special to most people.
But if you see me—really see me—you might find something worth saving. A little soul, bruised but still beating with hope. Hope that someone, someday, might whisper, “Come home with me.”
So, could you?
Could you accept a stray cat like me?
