Nine Lives

I settled down on a grimy bench, inhaling the chilly night air. The hour was approaching midnight, and the vendors across the street were beginning to shut down their stalls. A few meters away, tricycle drivers engaged in a spirited debate about the usual topics: politics, motorcycles, alcohol, and women. Amidst this scene, I noticed a cat lying in front of a closed souvenir shop, blood trickling from its nose, and its breath shallow. It appeared the cat had been defeated in a street fight by a larger opponent. Despite pedestrians bustling by, no one seemed to take notice of this wounded warrior in their midst. Even when someone nearly stepped on the poor creature, it remained invisible, detached from their reality. The cat existed, yet it seemed entirely absent.

Compelled by empathy, I approached the cat to assess its condition. With a gentle prod of my foot, it lashed out in delirium, claws scraping against my skin. The feline still possessed a flicker of a fight. To calm its anger, I cautiously scratched its ear, and gradually, it relaxed. Carefully, I turned the cat onto its other side and discovered that its injuries were far worse than I had anticipated. A deep wound marred the left side of its face, and it appeared its skull had been fractured. Its eyes were unfocused, darting aimlessly, attempting to comprehend its surroundings but failing to do so. Blood continued to flow from the wound, saturating its left side with warm crimson fluid.

I was mistaken. Another cat could not have inflicted such harm. Only a being capable of such brutality could have caused these injuries – a human being. And thus, the eternal question that plagues every human surfaced in my mind: why? Why did this cat deserve such a fate? What justification could possibly exist for such an act? The same voice within me that posed these questions also attempted to answer them. Perhaps the cat had committed some transgression, such as stealing food. But the voice countered, reminding me that the animal was merely doing what it must in order to survive in this harsh world. Does it deserve to perish simply because it follows its most primal instinct? And still, my mind sought answers. Yet, no matter how many times we respond, the questions persist. No matter how many times we answer, the unanswered questions persist.

Amidst the influx of unanswered inquiries, one question stood out among the rest: what should I do now? The cat was clearly nearing its end. Should I simply leave it on the ground where it lay? I could easily walk away, just like everyone else. Who would care if this cat perished right here? Perhaps a janitor or a sanitation worker would sweep its lifeless body into the trash come morning. Should I adopt the apathy displayed by everyone else? A part of me yearned to do so, but that sentiment was swiftly extinguished.

I stood there, gazing at the wounded cat, contemplating what I could do to help this unfortunate creature. No veterinarian clinic in town would be open at this ungodly hour. The only option remaining was to bring it home, cleanse its wounds, provide nourishment and water, and hope for its survival. If it didn't make it, at the very least, it deserved a dignified burial, not to be discarded like garbage. As these thoughts consumed my mind, a young boy collecting plastic cups and bottles on his tricycle to sell at recycling shops approached me and the cat. He inquired about the cat's condition, and I informed him that I had found it in this state. Without further inquiry, the boy retrieved an old newspaper from his bicycle and gently wiped away the blood from the cat's face. He revealed that he had pet cats at home. Impulsively, I asked if he would like to take the cat home and care for it, to which he willingly agreed.

Once again, I had been mistaken. There are indeed people who care, and often they are the ones we least expect.