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Posts Tagged ‘pet’


When a baker’s attempt to make a chocolate cake botched, he didn’t throw it away. Unknowing people come to like the failure cake, and for the centuries ahead, the failed cake is a branded desert called Brownies. There are a thousand morals of this story, but to me, a failed attempt is never a failure. It’s a delayed success.

And so when I unsuccessfully trapped a little black cat from an empty house in my previous home, I take it as a brownies in life. A botched attempts are challenging, intriguing, and tempting, so I follow my heart and try again, until I made it to bring her home.

I call her Koge Pan, literally means “Burnt Bun” in Japanese. She is all black, with strong, sharp green eyes, living her lonesome life in an abandoned house, coming home everyday to see if someone is filling her empty bowl.

She is fur-less when I first catch her. Her skin is so full with scabies, the mange and ticks and fleas cannot live on it. The vet I consulted actually asked me back where did I get such “exotic” kitten.

Pret A Porter

Pret A Porter

It took me four months to permanently cure her. Four months full of salves, vitamins, salt bath, spray, ointments…. Four month into a shiny, soft, and fluffy sweet bun.

I took it personally to cure her. I took it personally to care for her, not only because she deserved it, but more because she reminded me very very much like my very first pet cat. If she is male, then I would probably call her Kenichi II.

Kenichi was big, strong, handsome, and has the sharpest stare of all. My mother once has to deal with Conservancy Officer because one of my envious neighbor called them and reported that I keep a black panther cub.

So I determine to make his  female counterpart as great looking as he is.

She grown into the most beautiful “black panther cub” in the world. Fluffy hair, soft and shiny coat, brilliant green hair, and she loves to play. She doesn’t get along with the kittens like other cats, and sure love to perch on top of things to stay away from the running and tumbling. She can’t help it with Eden, the boy kitten climb over just to pat on her head (I call THAT a stunt) and run away before she swat him on the face.

When she is nine months old, I took her to the vet. With the help of the donation I set up in this blog, I was able to raise enough money to spay her.

It took longer than it should, however. First because the vet was taken away with her soft and fluffy fur, then because an hour later, she came out to say that Koge Pan has two bags of cysts on her ovary. She was asking if I want to remove it, considering that the bags of cysts are cancer prone and ready to burst.

The chance is 50:50. I can leave the cysts there and have Koge Pan live with ovarian cancer, or take the risk and remove the cysts with the possibility that the cysts grow somewhere else.

The vet and I decided to remove it.

The surgery went well. All of the cysts were removed, and she came home with me like new. She eat a lot, her stitches cured well, and she is now a more social cat.

The week after when I brought her back to the vet to remove stitches, the vet praise her on her wonderful progress.

But the week after, she suddenly refuse to eat, and whatever antibiotics the vet gave, she throw it all out. Soon, whatever comes into her mouth, whether it’s food or medicine, she would vomit.

It’s as if she had cancer already.

Over the week after, she would live on vials and i.v. I have to go back and forth to the vet, but since she fight so bravely to stay alive, I don’t mind draining my money for her.

We made a promise, that I would give her the best life I can afford, and that she would grow into a healthy, beautiful cat.

On August 28, I took her to the vet again, alongside Renoir who would have his Hernia stitched. The vet and I both realized that her dark skin had turned yellowish, and Koge Pan was considerably less responsive.

We know it’s looking grim, but we tried our best. I gave her the best food, the vet gave her the best treatment and medication, and for some days, she can walk again, although she still cannot eat.

On September 6, she vomits again, and she lose all her energy. She cannot stand up, cannot sit, cannot move. I took her to the vet again, and she get another serie of shots and vials. That night, she called for me all the time, and so I took her to bed with me. If sleeping side by side would calm her down, I wouldn’t mind doing bed sheet laundry everyday.

On Sept 7, she is not responding at all. I went to the office, but I cannot concentrate, so I told my boss I want to go home and finish some urgency, and rush her to the vet clinic.

Both vets (the one that operates her and her associate who handles Goldie) were present, and both gave their best effort, but Koge Pan slipped into a coma.

Half an hour later, she was already in vegetative phase.

It’s the time I dreaded. I just lost my rescued dog Ayumi last year from pyometra, and now I have been taken into the same situation.

I love Koge Pan. The other might go to a new family, to a forever home, but she would stay with me. We spend so much time together. Being with her is like having a sister next to me, who responded and even excel at each other promises.

I also know Koge Pan is in pain. Having to throw out every time something got into your throat is painful. Having to endure the starvation while your mouth refuse to open is painful, having to let life slipped by you is painful. And even if I decided to keep her, I would have left her soul hanging. Not alive, not dead.

We decided to let her go.

I have never saw both vet crying as they do what is necessary. They both tried the best they could. The both know how strong is the bond between us, and they both hated to lose the battle. The battle that Koge Pan had entrusted to us to win.

It was quick. She slipped away just like that, but the sorrow that come after that was long, and excruciating. Both vets and I was frozen long enough in front of the now sleeping Koge Pan, that the nurse locked the door so that no one would disturb us.

They cysts had not go anywhere. It hadn’t grow anywhere else, it didn’t broke, it didn’t turn into cancer, but it triggered different lethal enemy: Leukemia.

On Sept 8, as I took her ashes, I brought it over to the vet clinic once more, also to say my greetings to the vets who would celebrate Idl Fitri at Sept. 10.

When I gave her the money for euthanasia, the vet refused, and instead said “We all lose the game. Let’s keep the money in her memory, so that we can save others’ life”

God had given the best for me. Now that He want to take, let Him take only the best.

6For I am already being poured out like a drink offering, and the time has come for my departure. 7I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. 8Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day—and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing. ~ 2 Timothy 4:6-8

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When I was small, I used to sing a little nursery rhyme when I am home alone: “In my own little corner on my own little chair, I could be whatever I want to be…” I would then continue the rhyme with imaginations about the world. Amelia Earhart across the Pacific, a black lady with a pot above her head in Bombay, a shepherd by the Alpines, a mountain ranger in Rocky mountains, diving the Great Barriers Reef in Australia, among the wolf packs in the wild, walking alongside a white and black panda in China. I could go on for hours, not realizing how time passed by as I continue to work on my chores.

When I grow up, however, just like anyone else, I lean to embrace the dull lives of an adult. Get up, make breakfast, go to work, do this and that, go home tired, sleep like dead, get up in the morning….

Gone are the playful days, and the many distant dream that I once so determined to live for, the little wants that keep our heart sparking with fire, and anticipating new days. Though I have not yet outgrown the Peter pan and wings, I bitterly accept that I am too old for tales of knights and kings. I am now a full time salary-woman and a part time animal welfare fighter.

As the calling of my humanity grow louder, I took an utterly brainless decision to be a full time rescuer, and part time salary-woman. I know that my life would go downhill after that. No more designer’s shirts, no more expensive make ups, no more fancy food. I simply gave up the life of a princess to become a desolate pariah in the unforgiving consumerism world.

Even as I walk through this hard life with joy and genuineness, routine is my worse devil. It’s not easy to juggle between work, life and rescue; and since work and rescue must go so I can live and let my refugees live, I crossed out life.

With that, gone is my remaining day dreams. Life is a stereotype. A rat race, said Robert Kiyosaki. When people send messages to each other to live as if today is last, I know how it feels. It tasted just like how I have been spending my last dime every single day.

After I lost the golden kitten who was about to be a chili sauce (read my other post: Child’s Play), I ran away from my failure into more work, and more rescue. After all his pain all I can give is a name. Topaz Tanenah d’Angeli. Topaz for his color, Tanenah for being such a cute, tiny golden lion, and Angel for being one, but aside of that, I fail to save his live. I loathe my homeland for being so ignorant to neglect animal welfare law, and I curse them in life and death by being so corrupted to let so many cruelty take place and don’t even feel anything.

Two days after his passing I work late that I missed the garbage, so I got to dump the trash by myself in a landfill about ten minutes bike ride from home. As much as I hate it, the rain has just stop. The road was muddy, and it’s cold outside.

As I dump the trash bag, I felt something creeping on my ankles.

I hoped it wasn’t a cockroach. I fear cockroach, and in respond to that fear, I froze. At home, I can just jump and run to get some insecticide, but at the landfill? Should I scream for help?

I dare myself, and peeked down.

There it was, a pair of furry, white claw and big round eyes, looking straight at me, with tail swishing happily, wanting to play.

I cannot believe what I see. What is this little kitten – just as big as my fist – doing here?, but I don’t have plenty of time to think. A man with a small bulldozer is coming, so I scoop him up and step aside to give way for him.

“There were two yesterday”, he said, answering my dumb eyes as he passed by. “I think it was twin, but I’m not sure. I’m old, so my eyes were cheating on me often”

We laughed. He laughed to cheer himself on the sad fact, I laughed in relief because his eyes were not old enough to just ran over the two kittens with a bulldozer.

Tanenah and Nevaeh

It will be all right: Nevaeh giving Tanenah a hug

Besides, I know where his twin is. In my house. I found him staring to a puddle at the side of the street the day before, just outside the landfill, and I scoop him up. He was the gray and white kitten who gave that warm cuddle to Topaz Tanenah  d’Angeli.

A friend of mine named that gray and white kitten “Nevaeh” (try to read it backward to find out what it means), and he looks almost exactly like this little kitten I just met, it’s just that Nevaeh’s gray is tabby gray, while this one’s gray is plain gray.

Nevaeh

Nevaeh

I pushed him into my pocket, and give him a ride to his home; our home, and as soon as I put him down at the door, Nevaeh run like hell to him.

Last time it’s child’s play, this time it’s fate play.

Eden

Eden

For some weeks, I have no idea how to call the new comer, more so because his brother had heaven as his name, but I come to call him Eden.

Actually, the name is only to match that of his brother’s, but as he passed his days with the syndicate, he add more meanings to his name.

He is Eden, pure, full of spirits, so he play all day long. Running here, going there, nagging the older cats, tumbling as he run.

He is Eden, bright, free, and innocent, so he climb (my leg, usually), jumps, rolls. And when he cannot wait on the line for the other cat to finish eating, he’ll just push his head into the bowl and munch. “Sorry folks, I am growing, I need plenty of food, and I need it now”

Eden is joy, happiness, Eden’s spirit is contagious. For as long as my rescue life I have never met a cat with such shiny attitude that pass through the other senior to every corner of the syndicate’s den. Wherever I am in the house, I can locate Eden only by the brute noise he made while playing with the others, older or younger.

Even to myself, the little fur ball never fail to brighten my morning, rolling (literally) all over  to somersaulting from one pile of boxes to another, to biting the tail of one of an older cat. He balanced out my crying and stressful life with laughter and sheer delight. Unknowingly for me, Eden had taught me to keep the sunny side up because nothing more will come out of a burnt out face. Enjoy every day, make it the best always, and never missed the courtesy of small good things that come in each our step.

Brothers

Brothers

The back side of it, though, I have to be extra careful with his boldness. He followed the older cats playing in the garden, and even tried to get past the fence, which gave me heart attack all the time. With bunch of torturous kids living next door, Eden’s fearless joy can land him in trouble, especially since kitten his age has not yet learn about proper sense of direction.

But he played on, and one day, slipped out to the street and ended up stranded in the next door garden.

It’s the first time I heard him cry. I know he fear, but I cannot go inside the neighbor’s garden because they lock the door and won’t come out, so I tried to coax him from the small opening under their fence. As he gingerly move closer to me, however, my cruel neighbor come out and spot him. He mumbles several nasty words, and the next second, Eden come flying over the fence like volley ball, right into my arm.

The man kicked him. Hard enough to send him flying over one meter fence.

Though nothing of him is broken, Eden learned his lesson.

Eden feeling kicked out (literally)

Feeling kicked out (literally)

For the next few days, he is more quiet, and he never get out of the house. He went out to play (can’t resist the call I guess) but only as far as the front porch. He sleep alone (usually he perched on top of the other cats), so I spend some time with him just to cheer him up and bring back the sun of my syndicate.

In the next days, although I always stay by his side, and it cheer him up considerably, Eden is never the same bouncy spirit again. He is more solemn, calmer, laid back.

Though he bounced back into the merry, playful kitten soon after, he limit himself to the edges of my porch.

Sandwich

Sandwich? Hotdog? er.... hotcat? Eden, River Phoenix and Nevaeh.

The other joined him. It never cease to amaze me how cats: an animal said to be indifferent and self centered, can be so communal. When their play extended to the fence of my garden and Eden stopped, they stopped. When Eden returned and play alone on the porch, everyone follows. Hadn’t I seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed how a small kitten make such big difference.

I took it as a lesson for myself. I learn to believe that though we might seem insignificant, if we put our best effort and our whole heart into something, the world will turn in our favor. We just need to make the most out of everything, no matter how small and insignificant it is.

I learned to count my blessings, in the courtesy of small things along my way. The cold morning breeze, the calling of the sunrise each morning, the tiring yet satisfying duty of running a shelter alone, and the solace of being a potential outcast for believing in different things.

Eden had taught me to never be afraid to reach out. The world is a hazardous area, but it shouldn’t shun us away from doing the best, making the best, and enjoying the most.

Eden taught me that while we might be beaten, we should not be broken.

Lap Time

Lap Time!

Nearly two weeks from the kicking event, Eden start to lose appetite. He lose weight, though continue to be fluffy. He slept more, and less playful. His vet fans found nothing wrong with him, but being a psychologist myself, I had the feeling that Eden got PTSD.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, is health disturbances as delayed response to stress after certain event. It can vary from a simple headache to nasty migraine, to organ failure, or total loss on reality (meaning you become crazy).  In Eden’s case, he might not be showing symptoms as soon as he got kicked, maybe because of his supportive peers, but his young body is too frail to suppress the stress too long.

It is the challenge of Animal Psychology.  Though the basics of the theory is the same, on human, we took the advantage of the same language, while in animals, we should solely rely on their body language, which can often be deceiving. We can analyze their outer behavior, we can look into them and be sure that nothing is wrong, but their heart belongs to them alone.

Especially in the cases of domesticated stray like Eden, or the syndicate, and many other, we can never know fully what they have been through, how hard they took it, and therefore cannot fully anticipate the effects of their hard life prior to their arrival. We can only perceive, but never sure, at least not as sure as we can with fellow humans. I strongly believe that such mistakes, wrong anticipations, is what causing problem in adoption process. With all due respect to the well intention of the foster or parents, even the best treatment will not be effective if it’s directed to the wrong place.

Cats are more like human. They can be social, they can be communal, but each of them have unique individual traits that need to be respected. They have private areas that we cannot enter, more so because they speak different language than we are.

Putting these challenges the Eden’s way, I take my relationship with each of the refugees like the meeting of Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks in “You’ve Got Mail” So much twists and turns, and pain and energy consuming, but if we truly wish for the best, and listen to our heart, all that started good, will end good.

Well, most of the time, because I am often got Lost In Translation.

Dealing with Eden’s set back, we (the syndicate and I) continue to support him, we continue to play with him, spend more time by his side, and he got better and better, but heaven got its own plan. Eden does not belong to this dark and evil world, he belong to a bright sun, he belongs to the rainbows, and green pastures, and many butterflies.

Eden belongs to eden.

This morning I saw him sleeping, non stop, while the other already awake and play. I nudge him and he got grumpy, I thought he was just sleepy, so I took his picture while he sleep because he’s so cute.

Eden's sleep

Last Nap

In the evening, however, when I came home from the office, I found him on his favorite towel, curling up on his side, breathless. His face calm and peaceful.

Next to him Nevaeh sit quietly, and when I pat his head, he went away. Behind me all the other cats gathered, sitting and watching. It seems to me that all of them already know what is coming.

Again, I was lost in translation.

That night when I took him to be cremated, I relive all the wonderful lesson that he had shared me. To stay courageous, to never let cruelty take hold of your heart, to make the most out of everything, to bounce back where you fall, and to keep your cutest pose to your last breath, and to make everyday a special day.

Eden is here for a mission: to teach me to dare to reach out into the darkness, so that I can take someone’s hand into the light, just like he reached out his paws to me in the dark, so he can shine a light into our days.

When I almost believe that teaching human is mission impossible, his brief visit to my life is a huge mission accomplished.

Too bad it isn’t a happy ending like fairy tale, where Cinderella goes to the church and Fairy Godmother moved on to her next client, but, who knows? He might be clawing someone else’s ankle right now, with a brighter halo on his head.

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Exotic Picassa

Picassa

It’s a cloudy Sunday after an additional job when I suddenly decided to take different road back home. The small paved road was empty, but recent repair on it left a few rocks left by roadside, and a black thing too dark to be a stone. Frankly, I thought it was a lump of asphalt.

I drove my bike to avoid it, especially because I see a hint of white sedan behind me, when I realize that…. the lump got eyes!

So instead of driving away, I throw myself between the “stone” and the car, that immediately brakes but still hit me on time. I fall down (of course) and meet eye to eye with a black, extremely terrified kitten.

I sacked her up and brought her home, wondering why she didn’t run away from the car. After all, it is an empty road, and the car is slow. Slow enough for her to avoid it, if she wanted to.

The problem is, it wasn’t that the kitten didn’t want to run, but she couldn’t run. She can’t even stand up, because her hind legs were dislocated. Something must have hit her before, hard enough to threw her to the road and dislocated her hind legs, making her unable to run.

Since no vet is open on Sundays, and there’s no animal hospital in the city, I had to do it myself. I relocated her hind legs back to its place by the same principle that I was learning back in PE class.

I called the little kitten “Picassa” due to an abstract “print” on top of her eyes that made her look as if she is wearing a masquerade.

The next day, however, I brought her to the nearest vet.

The vet said I did a great job relocating her hind legs, and said that she has nothing to worry about. I told him that she can’t walk properly, and that her left leg seems to be higher than the right one, so she kind of walking abnormally. He said it was a simple muscle strain, and that her right leg is the one that got a little bit swollen. He gave me a prescription and told me to leave. My heart and mind rejected his statement in choir, but I took the prescription in silence. He is the vet, not me.

Given the prescription twice, Picassa was crying whenever she littered, and I saw blood. The third prescription, more blood. So I stopped the medication and brought her to another vet, the vet that used to handle my other cats. I show her the prescription, and she said “The prescription is to hard for a kitten. It’s acidic to her intestine and the blood is because her gastric and intestine kind of scalded”

My heart sank. This little kitten, away from her mother, alone on the streets, got dislocated leg, cannot walk properly and now has scalded GIT (Gastro Intestinal Tract). Not funny.

The vet told me to treat her GIT first, then we can go and treat her leg, and by the way, it is the left leg that has problem, not the right.

I wish I can go back and give the other vet a good punch.

So Picassa spend weeks drinking gastritis medicine, and eat special gourmet I personally designed: brown rice powder, milk replacer, and multivitamins.

The special recipe cured her GIT, but her leg was damaged forever. Her left hind leg was higher than the right, so Picassa walked with limp as if her left leg is shorter than the right one.

We can have her leg operated, so that she can walk properly, however, the surgery will require a vet to put some metal pen to attach her bone, and such technology is very rare in Indonesia, and that would mean, it’s extremely expensive. Plus, like the vet said, Picassa is 2 months old. Forcing a surgery may crush her bone, so she suggested series of physiotherapy that will help her cope with her physical condition, in the hope that she might grow more or less “normal”

I followed the later advise. So starting the next weekend, Picassa drove with me to have a physiotherapy, and her condition improved as time pass by. She can now walk almost normally, she can run, she can jump, and the multivitamins as well as extra calcium gave her a very healthy appetite. The therapy itself was not cheap, but if that would mean giving a new hope for Picassa to be adopted, I don’t mind spending another IDR 4,000,000.00 (more or less USD 400.00), at least, I will figure out how.

Picassa is two months old,  has gone through a lot of pain, and passed a long journey home. I can at least appreciate her perseverance and faith.

Please consider Chipping In to help Picassa heal. Remember that  1 US dollar will worth 9,000.00 Indonesian Rupiah. It means your support will be multiplied ten thousand fold. There has never been better investing opportunity.

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On my way home from the vet with Picassa,

Renoir's Dream

Renoir

I passed a furry lump by a puddle, near the sidewalk.

Though it was only a few second, I knew it was a small kitten; so I stopped and nudge the soft lump.

It didn’t move, so I tried peeking lower to see his face, and found out that both of his eyes were glued with yellowish hardened pus, and his nose is almost gone below the pile of crusty sinuses.

In short, I think, the kitten doesn’t want to be disturbed. He just want to stay there and die in peace.

But I am an uber nosy person so I scoop him up, open my bag, apologize to a bewildered Picassa inside it, and push the dirty and dying kitten in.

Later that night when I , remove the pus in his eyes, clean sinus crust and wipe him clean with an organic anti bacteria, the ugly fur lump slowly turned to a very handsome, 3 months old, kitten, with an unusual lump on his left belly. So I tried to lift him up much to his chagrin, and found out that his left belly is indeed bigger than the right side, hinting me that this kitten might have suffered from Hernia.

Since I don’t have any more money left to pay the vet, I focus to cure his severe sinus first. Really, this kid has slime filling up his throat that he has to breathe like fish: gaping with mouth open and sleep while he sit.

Within a few days when his ticks and mange are fully removed, and his sinus is getting better, he is now close friends with younger Picassa, and since the two are inseparable, I called him Renoir, which he seems to like because whenever I pronounce that name, he meows.

The next week, I got some money so I get him to the vet, which only shake her head with my persistence in saving street animals, despite my financial famine, but that is not the big point. The real breaking news is: Renoir does have Hernia, and the fact that he is 3 months old doesn’t help, because kitten that age tend to run and jump, and it make the hole ripped bigger and bigger.

I had the option of sedating him though, so that he is more “calm” and “subdued” but I vehemently against the idea, because it will be the same like ripping Renoir his youthful days.

The vet, in the other side, refuse to perform a surgery on him because he is too small to handle it. She told me that it is best to wait until he is 3 or 4 months older so his physical condition is better fitted for the surgery.

Meanwhile, I have an extra hard thing to do: making sure Renoir doesn’t go wherever or do whatever that can cause a wound on his belly, because one wound can directly affect his intestine, also, because of that lump (which is getting bigger) pushes his hind left leg away that Renoir cannot walk or run properly.

Have a difficulty to imagine? Well try to walk, or run (if you can) with your legs spread as widely as possible. Then Renoir would be completely offended because you are definitely mimicking him. 😛

During that three months, I also have to keep Renoir well conditioned, with special food, vitamins, that will give him not only balanced, but most complete nutrition to ensure him a perfect growth and condition when he undergo the surgery.

My biggest challenge is…. money (yeah, right). I tried adding extra hour on my night job and on weekends, but the extra income won’t even match the price of his food. I dare not imagine what should I do when the surgery day come because it will certainly, cost me more than IDR 3,000,000.00 (after a huge discount from the vet). In total, he would need at least IDR 5,000,000.00 (approx USD 550.00)

The good news is…luckily, this is Indonesia. a country where USD 1 will worth approx IDR 9,000.00. In Euro or Pound the number will even exceed 10,000.00. How great that would be? A single coin worth ten thousand time across the ocean?

One good karma multiplied ten thousand fold? I can guarantee that this is not an April fool joke.

Help me?

Help me?

Would you willing to try?

Just ChipIn as much as you think you can. Renoir would be grateful to be come a real cat again, I will forever be happy because he’d be able to live his second chance, and Picassa will be jumping on you in your dream because you help her spare her only playmate.

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Whiskers' Syndicate

We're the Whiskers' Syndicate!

We came a long way from all over the world, well, mostly Indonesia, an ever developing (who knows until when) country down between Indian Ocean and the Pacific. If you used to know South East Asia you will come to know us more easily, but if you still need a clue, we have that surfer’s paradise people called Bali.

Nope, we don’t surf, of course, but we roam on the nasty streets with hardy living. Got poisoned, ran over by car, left to die, forced to breed, dumped like trash, caged in zoos, circuses, or perform spectacular jump from a tiny tank in exchange of our vast ocean we called home.

We know no such thing as “freedom” and “life” It’s humans brag o nonsense.

That is, until some weirdo passed by with her bike and while we are ready to accept just another kick or slap (we don’t think we did anything wrong but that happened all the time *sigh*), she instead extend her hand, smile, and said one or two words before scooping us and throw us in her canvas bag, along with… well… pencils, books, shreds of what she called “bills”, and… something that rings some tune once and a while.

Most of our friend got scooped before and never returned, so we thought we’re history, but a few bumps and a couple of times later, she saw us into a small room, with a bed, some clothing, and a lot of other of our kind. Some we know, most not.

If we’re lucky, one of us or two will meet their long-lost siblings.

It’s no heaven, really. We have to share one bed at night, and queue to use the litter box. We can’t play in the green field, what we got is a red, hot (at midday), endless roof just outside her room window, but at least the air is nice, and we can scratch wherever we like or run and play as we please. We got our own plate, yes, but the food is definitely not premium grade. It’s more than certainly edible, though, compared to those we used to pick up from the trash.

And we’ve got a lotta love.

The girl will pick us up, put us on their lap, and wash us clean from those irritable manges. She force us to swallow a pill or some dark liquid that tastes some hint of chicken that will make our stomachs go awful the whole day and drop lousy numbers of worms (yuck), but yeah… we’ll then be as good as new.

Every once and then she’ll ride us to that group of young people who would never let us go before they successfully sting us with their needles, but after some time you can see that some of our sickly neighbors will get better, though some don’t. And when that happened, that weirdo girl will sit silent by the edge of the bed, cradling the fallen in her arm and shed tears (yes, we’re sure she shed tears, not fur).

Occasionally, she’d told us I have always dream of running a shelter, just like grandpa used to have, but I’d never thought that I’d have one now while I am in tight money. Are you guys sure you’re all right living poor way like this? I only have one room though… aah, we don’t answer that, but we just stay there. One room is better than no room, meh.

At the other time she’d company us eat (she eat her own food, those eaten by the rabbits, we eat our own share), and mumbles something like You guys are no different with a band of mafia when you eat…. you practically raid you plate.

Why of course! We’re the Whiskers’ Syndicate!

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