«No one will adopt him».
There is no separate room. Everything is in one big, noisy enclosure. Along the lefthand brick wall sit the cat cages, and on the right the dog pens. Shelter staff drift past the pens constantlysome carry bags of kibble, others hold fresh cloths, and a few lug buckets of water to refill the drinkers.
Visitors stream in. A quiet, modest familya thin mother, Claire, a thin father, Mark, and their skinny son, Elliotmove slowly from pen to pen, studying the residents for a long time. A young couple whispers by the cat cages. A silent old man with a cane ambles leisurely past the dog pens. And I, just having stepped over the shelters threshold, am overwhelmed by the smells, the noise, and the sheer number of animals.
In the first pen sits Molly, a tiny mutt with a wildly wagging tail. She frantically bites a rubber duck and ignores the visitors completely. A short distance away is Dante, a grim, jetblack dog with eyes that have seen too much. Crouched beside his pen is a smiling girl in a bright puffer jacket, chatting quietly with the dog as if trying to make a friend.
To the left is a genuine cat exhibitionevery breed, colour, and size imaginable.
On a pink cushion lies Sonia, a sleek white cat. She occasionally parts a yellow eye, watching anyone who approaches her cage. Hanging from the bars nearby is Kuzma, a blackandorange kitten that looks like a cartoon houseelf, his head oversized. He lets out a weak mew, flops onto his back, shuffles lazily to the corner where his water and food bowls sit, then, when he spots me, darts straight toward me.
Youre a funny one, I mutter, slipping a finger through the bars and scratching Kuzma behind the ear. The bigheaded little scamp closes his eyes, purrs with pleasure, and gently nibbles my finger as if playing.
Look, Mum, how cute he is, whispers the skinny boy, running up to Kuzmas pen. His parents glance at each other in perfect synchrony and shake their heads together.
Hes very small, Elliot, his mother says softly. Elliot grunts something incomprehensible, nods, throws a rueful look at Kuzma, and moves on. I realise his parents would prefer a dog, so they steer their son away from the cat pens. Kuzma doesnt mind who pets him; he purrs loudly and rubs his head against my finger, alternating left and right, while occasionally pretending to chew his teeth, coaxing another smile from me.
Maybe this one? I turn and notice Elliot frozen at the farright corner of the shelter, in the dimmest part. Hes big and handsome.
Oh no! his mother immediately shakes her head. Lets look at the dogs instead. And that one hes very old.
Old, small Elliot mutters, then, sighing, follows his parents toward the dog pens. His grumble quickly turns into laughter when he reaches the shelters favourite residenta tiny bearlike pug named Masik. The little dog waddles inside his pen, licks every finger that reaches for him, and even the silent old man watches him with a smile, admiring the fluffy bundle tugging at a soft toy in the corner.
My curiosity shifts to the darkest, most secluded penthe one that made Elliots mother flinch. I leave Kuzma alone and head toward that corner, taking a heavy breath as I approach the final cage.
Inside, on a grey blanket, lies an old tomcat. Just an ordinary garden cat, now a dignified gentleman whose days are winding down. He does not pace, does not meow, and does not seek attention. He simply lies on the blanket, staring into a greyclouded void, purring faintly. When I step closer, he stops purring, sniffs the air, and lets out a humanlike sigh. He then rests his head on his thin legs and closes his eyes.
This is Aramis, our old timer, I say, startled by a cheerful male voice behind me. Turning, I see the shelters worker, a freckled lad named Barry, his badge reading Barry.
Whats his story? I ask quietly, trying not to disturb the cat.
Nothing much. Just an old chap, Barry replies, opening the cage and topping up Aramiss bowl. Aramis sniffs, rises slowly from the blanket, and shuffles toward his food, bumping his nose against the bars a couple of times. Hes blind. Cant see a thing. Our old lad.
How did he survive on the streets? I wonder, turning to Barry.
Hes not a street cat, Barry laughs, flicking his nose as if apologising for his amusement. His owners gave him up because they were too busy to look after him. We gave him care, but who needs an old cat? Even our director, Nora, looked at him and said, No one will adopt him.
Right, I agree. They take the young and the calm.
If you dont count Daisy, Barry nods toward the black dog pen where a girl sits beside a dog. Dante is a stubborn one, thats why shes trying to befriend him.
So? I prompt.
Bit by bit. Loyal dogs rarely approach people, and Dante is exactly that. Like Aramis, Barry sighs. When we first got Aramis, he went a week without eating, just waiting to be taken. When someone enters the shelter, he sniffs the air, wags his tail, then, realizing its not for him, curls up and sighs.
You kept him in the corner to spare him more stress? I ask. Barry nods, pursing his lips.
Exactly. Its sad. He keeps hoping someone will come, then collapses, sleeps almost all day. Most likely hell finish his life here. Who wants an old, blind cat? What about youany favourite? Need a suggestion? Barry leans in. I saw you standing by Kuzmas pen.
Yes, hes a little clown, I smile, recalling the bigheaded kitten.
Hes new. Kids found him on the street and brought him here. Probably a stray from a litter. Good thing the dogs didnt snatch him first. Weve vaccinated him, cleared him of fleas, even taught him to use the litter. He wont make a mess, Barry says, flashing a grin. So, taking Kuzma home?
Yes, I think I will, I reply, glancing at the sleeping Aramis, then add quietly, Could I take him too?
Seriously? Barry looks surprised, pauses, then shakes his head. We only allow one animal per adopter. Hold on while I check with Nora.
Alright, I agree, watching Barry leave. I turn back to Aramis, who seems to understand. Hey, buddy. Come with me? Im not your owner, but I can promise you food, water, and a bigheaded catlover wholl tug at your tail.
Before I finish, Aramis rises, sniffs the air, and pads to the cage door Barry had left ajar. I extend my hand; the cat sniffs it, nudges his cheek against my fingers, and lets out a soft purr.
Looks like a yes, I smile, gently scratching his ear.
Director Nora said its fine, Barry rushes back, seeing me pet the cat, and chuckles, Seems youve found common ground.
Whats the point of not finding him? I shrug. Two old bachelors, a flat, and a tiny catlover on top of it all.
Honestly, whats the secret? Youre keeping Aramis knowing he wont live long, Barry asks softly. I sigh, looking at the cat, who appears to wait for my answer.
Because a cat should go to a rainbow where its loved, not to a cold shelter where every visitor breaks its heart again and again, I say. A faint whir of Aramiss tiny heart seems to confirm my words.
Ill sort the paperwork, Barry nods and darts off to the office, leaving me alone with the old cat. We sit in silence; I stroke his ear while Aramis purrs gently, his clouded eyes locked onto mine.
—
That evening, I lounge on the sofa watching TV, while a small, frantic ball of fur named Kuzma nests on my chest. His coat still carries dust from the corners of the house my single hand never reaches. He sighs, sometimes claws, and nuzzles my ribs.
Beside my left foot, on a grey blanket, lies Aramis. The old cat curls into a ball, his paw pressed against my thigh as if fearing Ill vanish like his former owners. The moment I shift, Aramis lifts his head, sniffs, and settles only when I gently rub his head and reassure him Im still here.
If I get up to fetch the kettle, Aramis stumbles into corners but follows me, and Kuzma trails like a tiny tail. After a while he learns the kitchen route, slides past the bowls without a hitch.
When I leave for work, both cats see me out the door. Aramis lingers, watching me go, his eyes never moving. He eventually sniffs the air, laps at my outstretched hand, and retreats to his grey blanket. At night they sleep with me: Kuzma on the pillow, his fluffy rear perched on my head, and Aramis by my left leg, his thin paw resting on my thigh. I know one day Aramis will depart. May he go where hes loved, not to a cold shelter where every door slam shatters an old cats heart.
