The world, for me, is a tapestry of smells, sounds, and the soft brush of air against my whiskers. I navigate by memory, by the familiar scent of the feeding bowl, by the echoing clink of the shelter worker’s keys. But even in this world without sight, I feel the chill of unspoken rejection. My ears, sensitive to every whisper, often catch the hurried conversations, the hesitant tones. I’m a blind cat, and everyone rejects and won’t adopt me.
I know I’m not like the others. I can’t chase the red dot of a laser pointer, or bat playfully at a dangling toy with the same wild abandon. When humans approach my kennel, I turn my head, my sightless eyes trying to discern their presence. I hear their soft “awws” for the kittens, their coos for the fluffy long-haired cats, their excited murmurs about the playful tabbies. And then they come to me.
I sense their hesitation. Their footsteps slow, their voices drop to a sympathetic murmur, tinged with a pity that feels like a cold draft. I hear them discussing my condition: “He’s blind, you know.” “Poor thing, he wouldn’t be able to play.” “It would be too much work.” My heart, a small, hopeful flutter, sinks a little deeper with each word.
I want to tell them. I want to tell them that my ears hear every soft word, that my whiskers feel every gentle touch, that my purr is just as loud and loving as any cat’s. I want to tell them that I can navigate a home once I learn its layout, that I can play with crinkly balls and jingle toys, that my inability to see doesn’t mean I can’t love with every fiber of my being.
I’ve been here for a long time. The scent of this kennel, a mix of disinfectant and loneliness, is ingrained in my fur. I’ve heard countless doors open and close, signaling the departure of another cat to a forever home. I listen to their joyful meows fading into the distance, and I imagine the soft beds, the warm laps, the endless quiet companionship they’ve found.
Sometimes, a kind hand reaches into my kennel, stroking my fur with a surprising gentleness. I lean into it, purring with all my might, trying to convey all the love and gratitude bubbling inside me. For a moment, hope ignites, a bright, warm spark. Perhaps this time. Perhaps this hand will lead me to a home, to a life where my blindness isn’t seen as a burden, but just another part of who I am.
But then, the hand withdraws. The footsteps move on. And I’m left alone again, the silence of my kennel punctuated only by the distant sounds of life outside. My sightless eyes stare into the dark, a silent question forming: Is it because I cannot see the world that the world cannot see me? Is it truly because I’m blind that everyone rejects and won’t adopt me? The thought is a heavy burden, a loneliness that presses down harder than any physical discomfort. All I long for is a heart that sees beyond my eyes, and chooses to love me anyway.
