Cats in Cages

I can still see the cats in their cages. Some of them are upstairs, in the room reserved for the sick ones, the cats that can only be adopted into an only cat situation. A few are standing eagerly waiting for someone to change their litter boxes, clean the cages and then give them fresh food and water. But it doesn’t end there, with their basic physical needs covered. When I would pet them and caress their bodies, they responded, wanting more. They would bend their little heads and look at me. At this point I don’t care about the jerk, also known as P.J. something or other—the guy who fired me, a volunteer, because I petted them or wouldn’t clean the feral cages. He knew (if he was not/is not blind) that my right side is disabled and that I don’t have health insurance. That was just an excuse to get rid of me—I realize that. What I care is about the kitten in Midwood I couldn’t go and save because dear P.J. said I was harassing him asking questions. I guess he expected his volunteers to just clean the cages and shut up. And I care about the cats and kittens I am not going to see again. I will miss them. The best part of being there for a few hours once or twice a week was the cats. The human beings, the fellow volunteers who didn’t come to my aid when P.J. started acting the way he did—them I don’t care about, either. If they did nothing, they’re just like him. But the cats are affectionate are another story. They are grateful and I will keep seeing them in my mind for a long time to come.

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