Oddly, he really wasn't afraid. Maybe he'd been through so much that he already knew that there was nothing he could do to protect himself. Or, maybe he sensed that he was going to be loved and cared for finally; that he was going to be my "heart kitty." I picked him up at PetSmart, paid his fee and gingerly put him in the carrier. We went straight to the vet, where he was examined, given an antibiotic injection for the respiratory infection that made his breathing actually audible, and got drops for his eyes. After two weeks at the Humane Society free-feeding dry and pouched food, he weighed barely 3 pounds - and he was 7 months old. Back into the carrier, and then into the calm and warmth and quiet of the extra bedroom, where he was willing to just lay on the bed for a couple of hours before getting up to look around. I was both sad for him and angry at what people who were supposed to be taking care of him had done to him. He really was an innocent victim. And yet, someone had rescued him from the "home" where he was starving and filthy. Someone had put him in that hidden cage at PetSmart, and someone had led me to make a beeline for him. So, maybe things did work out just the way they were supposed to, although it makes me sad to think of how awful his life must have been, and how tenacious he had to have been to have survived as long as he did. And what an amazing thing it was that he was such a sweet, loving little kitten despite what had happened to him.
And he's still a wonder, with eye contact that amazes me every day. And the most tender way of reaching out with his long, thin leg to pat me. And snuggling into my elbow to nap. Someone said he's my "familiar." Like witches supposedly had. Could be. I just know that scrawny and epileptic and shedding tons of white fur that seems to have an adhesive quality to it, he's amazing and wonderful and makes me happy every single day that I found him and have the privilege of cherishing him.
