Golden Hope

The wintertime was always when the cat shelter was the most crowded. The smell of wet cats plagued the shelter, but dirty kittens still mewed pitifully. Instead of fluffy tails brushing against your legs when you enter the shelter, skinny bones whacked your knees. Their meows were raspy and often followed by hacks and hairballs.

Little kittens curled up next to each other, shivering, waiting for the empty void of night. Their fur was muddy and had hardened into clumps. Their small, pink noses quivered in the relentless chill of winter. Injured kittens made their home in a crowded corner next to the only vent that spewed hot air. Their eyes were wide and large against their painfully thin faces.

The largest cat, its fur midnight black, invited the other cats to snuggle and warm each other with their body heat. The black cat was one of the few cats who still had thick, fluffy fur and a filled-out face. Every Sunday, a blonde woman and a bald man would take the black cat for the day. At nighttime, the black cat returned with a mouthful of treats for the skinniest kittens. They would crunch down the treats after splitting them with some of the older cats in the shelter. The black cat would sit down and watch the young kittens munch on the treats with a somber countenance, perhaps wondering what would happen to them if he was to die.

When the sun rose, a petite cat with ginger-colored fur would take the dirtiest kittens and lick them until some of the filth and grime had washed away. She would brush them once, twice, thrice, with her tongue, hacking up all the eaten impurities.

Sometimes, the owner of the cat shelter would accidentally leave a small tap on. When that happened, all the cats and kittens would mew and play in the water, not minding the cold. The kittens went first, lapping up the cold, icy water, soothing their dry throats. After the kittens left the running tap and fled to the hot air vent to dry off, the older cats would savor the fresh water. They would slowly sit underneath the tap and would carefully lap up the water, making sure that everyone got some.

But that was not enough for those poor felines.

Not the once-and-a-while drink of water, not the weekly crumbs from the black cat, not the single hot air vent. Every single one of the cats and kittens dreamed of the same thing when the sun went down. Not fish. Not milk. Not yarn.

A family.

A real, real family with people; not just the other homeless cats that scraped by, but with humans. Every time a person came into the shelter (which was not that often), every cat and kitten would meow their raspy meows, paw at the visitor, and roll on the dirty floor and look at them with sad, pleading eyes.

Is this the one? they would meow. Is this the one who will deliver us from this horrid oubliette? Is this the one?

The visitor never chose them, though. They always went to the elite pet shelter across the street and would come out with a fluffy, clean, plump cat that looked like it had never seen a bad hair day.

It was not the one, they would meow mournfully. It was not the one. They were a false liberator that got our hopes up, only for our hopes to crash onto the floor and shatter. It was not the one.

So they would sit there, staring at the adopted cat enviously, attempting to block out the endless chill of winter. Eventually, they would slink back and curl up beside one another, shivering and dreaming impossible dreams.

Nothing ever changed. Why would it? No one was gutsy enough to do so. No one dared attempt to escape from this feline penitentiary and risk the horrible risk of freezing to death it the cold streets of Washington, D.C. One poor calico kitten had attempted to do so, but was found a week later, shivering and half-dead, driven insane. The shelter cats had welcomed the calico kitten back, but that poor kitten was never the same. She stayed in the farthest away from the hot vent, staring at the other cats when it was nighttime.

The owner of the cat shelter never showed their face. They never checked in on the kittens. They only cared about the cats if money fell into their pockets because of an adoption, which had only happened once or twice, if ever. They had a strange herb garden, but whenever a cat attempted to eat one of the herbs, they were violently ill for weeks.

There were no well-fed cats in the shelter, save for the black cat who came with the small amount of treats to share. The black cat… he was a rare being, a feline savior to the others. Only the black cat knew why the blonde woman and the bald man would take him every Sunday and then bring him back, but the he never spoke of why.

Maybe he was too scared to tell. Maybe he was under an oath. Maybe he decided to keep it a secret for his own purposes. But two of the theories crossed every cat’s brain… and it seemed to be the one that seemed the most plausible.

Maybe the black cat was too afraid of bragging about his better life. Maybe his owners neglected him and decided to make amends and repent every Sunday.

Maybe all of the ‘maybes’ were true. Maybe none of them were true. Anyways, it made no difference to the destitute felines living in the shelter.

But… even though nothing changed in this detestable facility, there was still a sliver of golden hope. Hope that was salvaged even after a possible adoptor’s rejection. Hope that was salvaged even when kittens and cats wasted away with nearly nothing to eat or drink.

And that hope kept them alive.