The cat had no front legs. His eyes, wide and green, followed me through the dusk.
I stopped, heart heavy, on the cracked sidewalk. He dragged himself closer, not begging, just watching. His fur was matted, gray like the fading light.
I knelt, and he didn’t flinch. Something in his stillness held me there, as if he’d been waiting. I had no food, only my empty hands. I walked home, his gaze trailing me like a shadow.
In my kitchen, I grabbed a can of cat food. My own cats, sprawled on the couch, flicked their tails but didn’t stir. Back outside, he was still there, waiting by the curb. I opened the can, and he ate fast, like he hadn’t eaten in days.
His body leaned into the ground, steady but strained. I wondered what he’d been through. No front legs to wash his face, no way to run. Yet he ate with a quiet dignity, as if thanking me with every bite.
When he finished, he looked up. Stood, in his own way, on his back legs. A small gesture, like a nod. He didn’t leave. I didn’t either. We sat there, two strangers in the evening’s hush, bound by something unspoken.
A Familiar Stranger
The next day, I saw him again. Coming home from work, my briefcase heavy, I spotted him near the same curb. His eyes caught mine, and he dragged himself toward me. He remembered. I knelt again, opened another can.
He ate eagerly, his body low to the ground, tail flicking softly. I noticed his face, smudged with dirt he couldn’t clean. My fingers itched to help, but I hesitated. Would he trust me?
I reached out, slow, and scratched under his chin. He leaned into my hand, eyes half-closed, purring faintly. It was the first sound he’d made. I scratched harder, where his fur was knotted, and he pressed closer.
No front legs to groom himself, yet he tried, rubbing his face against the ground. I thought of my own cats, how they’d bat at each other, how they’d never known hunger. This cat, he’d known too much.
I sat with him until the streetlights buzzed on. He didn’t leave, and I didn’t want him to. But home was full—three cats already, hissing at anything new. I couldn’t bring him in. Not yet.
A Name and a Home
His name became Xiaobawang. I don’t know why it fit, but it did. Maybe because he was small, yet fierce in his quiet way. Days passed, and he was always there, waiting for me.
I brought food, scratched his itches, watched him play in his strange, determined way. He’d roll onto his back, batting at a leaf, or crawl fast across the grass, chasing nothing but joy. I laughed, soft, and felt my chest ache.
I knew he couldn’t stay a stray. Life without front legs was hard enough. My cats wouldn’t welcome him—they’d fight, claws out, and he’d have no way to defend himself. I started asking around, quietly, for someone who could love him.
Someone with a gentle home, no other cats to bully him. It took seven days, but we found her. A woman with kind eyes, a soft voice, and a house that smelled of lavender.
She took Xiaobawang to the vet. They checked him, dewormed him, made sure he was strong. He slept the whole way home, curled in her lap.
She sent me pictures: Xiaobawang eating chicken breast mixed with egg yolk, his favorite.
He’d sleep after, sprawled on a soft blanket, safe. I looked at those pictures late at night, my own cats purring beside me, and felt something settle in my heart.
A New Kind of Dance
A month later, I visited. Xiaobawang was different, brighter. His fur gleamed, no longer matted. He crawled to me, fast, and nudged my hand.
His foster mother laughed, said he was spoiled now. He’d play with her other cat, a gentle one who didn’t mind his missing legs.
They’d tumble together, Xiaobawang swatting playfully, never angry. He’d wash his face in his own way, rubbing against a pillow, and his foster mother would help, her hands steady and kind.
We took him outside that day. He lay in the grass, rolling, chasing a shadow only he could see. His eyes were bright, like they held a secret.
I thought of that first evening, his gaze pulling me in. I thought of all the quiet moments since—his trust, his patience, the way he’d chosen me, even for a little while.
He didn’t need me anymore. Not like before. But I sat with him, scratching his chin, feeling his purr under my fingers. The sun was low, the air cool. I didn’t say much. Neither did he. We didn’t need to.
This story was inspired by a quiet, touching video you can watch here. If it moved you, feel free to support the original creator.