The traffic didn’t slow.
Cars passed in waves, loud and impatient, splashing through the shallow rain along the roadside. He was there—small, black, and still—no bigger than a handful of shadow.
I didn’t see him at first. Just something low and dark near the overpass, something that moved when it shouldn’t have.
The First Touch
He was soaked through, trembling. The rain had matted his thin fur to his sides, and his eyes glistened—not with fear, but with a kind of stubborn defiance. He didn’t want help. He didn’t trust hands.
When I reached for him, he twisted away and hissed, swiping the air like a cornered thing. I tried again, slower. Still, he fought—legs stiff, mouth open in a cry that didn’t ask for kindness.
We didn’t have time to argue. The road wasn’t going to get any safer, and the kitten didn’t understand that. I wrapped him in a towel and eased him into a soft bag, even as he thrashed. It felt like holding a bird made of wire and wind.
Back home, he wouldn’t stop crying. His voice was loud, his body tense. He didn’t seem afraid. Just unwilling to surrender.
I filled a shallow basin with warm water. When I lowered him in, his paws moved like he was trying to swim. Not to escape—just to stay afloat.
The dirt didn’t lift easily. Sand clung to his fur, deep in the grooves around his ears and between his toes. When I tried to clip his claws, I saw they’d been trimmed before. He hadn’t always been wild.
I cleaned the crust from his eyes. Fed him goat milk, warm and slow. Showed him the litter box. He paced inside it, unsure, then did what he had to do and meowed until I let him out.
That night, I named him Gaojianli. A name for something fragile, but determined.
A House with Two Cats
The next morning, we visited the hospital. He weighed barely a pound. The doctor looked concerned. Hypoglycemia. Anemia. But no virus. No infections. He would make it—if we fed him, if we loved him gently and often.
At home, he met Chouchou, the first cat. Older, bigger, easily offended. Chouchou took one look and walked away, tail high and cold.
Gaojianli didn’t mind. He had other concerns. He drank water like he’d crossed a desert. I kept him close in a soft-sided cage, afraid he might disappear into a crack or drawer.
Chouchou watched from a distance, quiet and suspicious. Gaojianli watched him back, wide-eyed and patient.
On day three, I took Gao out for air. He sniffed everything, but something wasn’t right. His breathing was fast, shallow. At the vet again, the doctor said he was fine—just overwhelmed. Too many new smells. Too much sky.
Each day after, we tried again. A little sun, a little walking. Gao began to relax.
He started sleeping in my arms by evening. His eyes closed gently now. His breath evened out.
He was learning to feel safe.
The Fall
It was the ninth day when he jumped from the table.
Too high. Too soon.
He landed wrong and cried out, then limped. I wrapped him up and drove straight to the clinic. A small fracture, the doctor said. Nothing serious—but he needed rest.
I scolded him gently, and he lay flat on the bed, not moving, not looking at me. Just waiting for forgiveness.
The next day, his hind legs looked thinner. The vet mentioned atrophy. We began simple exercises.
Every day, a little stretch. A jump. A climb. Gao tried so hard, it made my heart hurt to watch. He didn’t complain. He just kept going.
I bought him a horizontal bar. He loved it, clung to it, swung a little with his weak legs.
Then we moved to a new apartment. Both cats came. New corners to hide in, new sounds, new sunbeams. I made time for them both, every day.
Chouchou, at first, kept to himself. But food changed everything.
One can of soft food, mixed with a little warm water, and suddenly both cats were side-by-side, licking their bowls clean.
Then came the first shared nap.
And the first shared fight.
And the second nap—this time in each other’s arms.
A Kitten Named After Persistence
By day twenty, Gao could jump. Not high, but strong.
He started to chase toys across the floor. I brought him to the market and let him sniff melons, mochi, and candy. He hated pineapple. Turned his head away like a snob.
He was learning to be picky.
He followed Chouchou from room to room. Still got swatted sometimes. Still started fights in his sleep. But they needed each other to rest—couldn’t sleep apart.
One night, Gao had a nightmare. Mewed softly, legs twitching. Chouchou woke, bit him lightly on the ear, then curled up beside him again.
The days blurred.
Gao fought with cat litter. Pouted at lost toys. Discovered new ones. Lay in doorways like royalty, legs crossed, belly to the breeze.
By day thirty-one, he had his own favorite sleeping spot—atop the new climbing frame.
He looked bigger now. Stronger. But when he curled up tight, his bones still showed.
Sometimes he’d press his tiny body against mine, like he remembered the rain and the road and how loud cars can be when you’re alone.
I don’t know what he remembers.
But I know what he’s become:
Safe.