On Saturday Home Fur Good the animals shelter where I volunteer had a big adoption event sponsored by our local Telemundo station.
It was 117 degrees outside but it was even toastier inside, emotionally I mean.
Children’s adoring eyes, small furry creatures ready to lick your face raw, bright lights and cameras capturing the moment…all and all it was a great success for everyone. With all the empty cages we will now be able to rescue more helpless creatures scheduled for euthanasia.
All that made me think about my first pet. A cat I rescued from the street. I was so young, before kindergarten, that I didn’t know if it was a male or female. I sneaked it into the apartment we lived in, on the top floor of a very tall building. I was able to keep it hidden and fed with little bowls of milk for about two days before we were discovered. Keep in mind this was Italy of many years ago and no one had heard of cats or dogs food back then. It was a gray tiger type. My mother declared it had to be a male cat because he liked to spend so much time outside, especially at night. By outside she meant the flat roof of the building that doubled as common space for tenants to sit and pretend we lived in a penthouse.
The apartment had a narrow terrace with only two horizontal railings to keep us from falling off. We had hired help and the meticulous woman decided to wax the terrace floor. The first time I went out there with my cat, it was like walking on ice, we both went slip sliding away. The rail stopped me from the high fall, but the small cat went straight down. I remember running down the four flights of stairs (no elevator) sobbing all the way to the ground floor and out to the gardens to find my precious kitten just sniffing around as happy as can be. Perhaps with only eighth lives left?