My name doesn’t matter. No one ever used it anyway.
I live in a shelter—cold in winter, too hot in summer, always filled with noise. Dogs barking. Humans talking. The excited meows of kittens as they’re chosen and carried out in warm arms.
But not me. I stay here. I’ve always stayed here.
I’m a blind cat. I was born this way. I’ve never seen a sunrise, never looked into someone’s eyes, never watched a butterfly dance through the air. My world is built from sounds, smells, and the softest touch of the wind.
People walk past my crate every day. I hear their footsteps. I can tell when they pause in front of me—but it never lasts long.
They take a breath, whisper something like,
“Oh… poor thing,”
or
“She looks strange,”
and then… they walk away.
I used to hope. I used to lift my head and try to look like I was happy. I even purred sometimes when I heard kind voices.
But slowly… my hope faded.
Because no matter how sweetly I meowed, no matter how still I sat, no matter how much I wished—nobody ever picked me.
I’m not soft and playful like the others. My eyes are cloudy and still. I move slowly, bumping into walls. Sometimes I trip. Sometimes I hide because I’m afraid.
And every time another cat finds a home, I whisper to myself:
“I know no one loves me because I’m not perfect. I’m very sad because I’m a blind cat.”
I didn’t ask to be this way. I didn’t ask to be broken in the eyes of others. All I’ve ever wanted was to feel a warm hand on my back, to be held close and told that I matter.
But most days, the only warmth I feel is the morning sun slipping through the window… for a few minutes… before the shadows come again.
Some nights, I cry softly into my blanket—not from pain, but from the emptiness inside me. I wonder if I’ll ever leave this cage. If I’ll ever sleep in a real bed. If someone will ever say, “You’re mine.”
I don’t want toys. I don’t need a fancy collar. I just want love.
I want someone who won’t care that I can’t see. Someone who will love the way I lean into their touch, the way I listen with my whole heart, the way I purr when I finally feel safe.
I want someone who will whisper to me that I’m not broken.
Because maybe… just maybe… I’m not.
Maybe being blind doesn’t mean I’m unlovable. Maybe being imperfect doesn’t mean I’m not worthy.
Maybe… one day… someone will kneel in front of my crate, open the door, and instead of walking away, they’ll pick me up and hold me close.
And maybe then, for the first time in my life, I’ll whisper something different:
“I know someone loves me—not because I’m perfect, but because I’m me.”
Until that day comes… I’ll be here. Waiting. Hoping. Listening for the sound of love.
