As some of you know my daughter Aimee, (Squashasmom), is a volunteer at a shelter in Northern California.
This is blog she posted on MySpace and I would like to share it.
I don't know his name---
He didn't have one. Maybe he did at one time. Maybe he used to belong to someone at one point, someone who would pet him and scratch his ears and tell him what a good kitty he was. But it had been a long time since he'd been "someone's cat."
I heard him meow as I walked by. His kennel card said he was a stray and was at least 12 years old. He was thin and obviously ill. His coat was dull and what few teeth he still had were covered with tartar. Here was an animal who had probably suffered most of his life and who would, most likely be unceremoniously killed in a matter of hours. But all he seemed to want was a little bit of attention and affection. Breaking all shelter protocol, I poked my fingers into his kennel and watched as he frantically rubbed his head against them. "I love you," I whispered as scratched his head.
On Friday, when I go back to work, he will undoubtedly be gone. I'm sorry I can't do more for him. I can't take away all those years living on the streets, all the lonely nights and the fights for territory and for food. He may not ever get to fall asleep on my bed or have a collar with a shiny tag on it. But for those few brief moments as I touched him, in my heart (and maybe in his too), he was MY cat.
