Last April, I encountered a small, scruffy cat on the street that marked the beginning of an unexpected journey. He looked pitiful and dirty, a tiny creature alone and wary. As soon as I crouched down, he cautiously approached me, meowing in what seemed like a plea for food. His fur was matted and messy, and he guarded his food bowl with a sense of possession that tugged at my heartstrings.
We had some cat food in our car, and my husband went to fetch it while I stayed to comfort the little guy.
His tuft of fur hanging beneath his neck was especially endearing, despite its disheveled appearance. Though I already had two cats at home, I was hesitant to get too close, worried about potential diseases. Still, I was charmed by his appearance and the sadness in his eyes.
The next day, we returned to check on him. He had a bowl of food nearby, so we decided not to take him home just yet.
My husband suspected he might belong to someone. The little cat seemed very sleepy, and we wanted to see his eyes. Despite his dirty coat, his eyes were strikingly beautiful. We checked for ear mites, and though he was cleaner than our house cats, his appearance suggested a rough life.
Over time, we made frequent visits. The cat mostly lay around, looking cold and neglected. Someone had given him a sausage, which he hadn’t eaten.
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