The street was gray, and the kitten was smaller than my hand. His eyes, half-closed, held a weight no creature so young should carry.
People hurried past. Briefcases swung, shoes clicked, but no one stopped. The kitten sat alone, a tiny shadow against the curb.
I was late, my mind racing with deadlines, but his stillness caught me. His head dipped low, maybe sleepy, maybe hurt. I couldn’t tell. My chest tightened.
I stood there, watching. No one came for him. The world moved on, indifferent. I thought of leaving too, but his smallness held me.
I’d never raised an animal before. My apartment was no place for a pet. Yet, his frail body trembled, and I couldn’t walk away.
I scooped him up. He was light, barely there. Back home, I offered water, but he curled into himself, asleep or too weak to drink. Panic crept in.
His breathing was faint, uneven. I rushed him to the vet, my plans unraveling. The doctor’s words were heavy: he was young, sick, and fragile.
Healing him would cost more than I had. But his eyes, barely open, looked at me. I couldn’t abandon him now.
I named him Jiuwan, hoping he’d have nine lives.
A Fragile Beginning
The vet’s office smelled of antiseptic and worry. Jiuwan lay still, a catheter in his tiny leg. The nutrient drip kept him alive, but his body fought hard. I canceled my trip to another city. Plans could wait; Jiuwan couldn’t.
Each day, I watched him. His eyes opened slowly, like dawn breaking. On the third day, they met mine. A spark flickered there, a quiet trust. I knew then I’d made the right choice. He was mine, and I was his.
Jiuwan’s voice was soft, a faint mew that barely filled the room. He was new to the world, yet already battered by it. I gave him medicine, cleaned his weak hind legs, and prayed he’d grow stronger.
The vet warned me his legs were born wrong, maybe why someone left him on the street. The thought stung. I was glad I found him when I did.
At home, he slept in a nest of blankets. I hadn’t bought a proper bed yet. He ate small bites, drank tiny sips. His recovery was slow, but every step felt like a victory.
When he stumbled, I held my breath. When he sat, I smiled. Jiuwan was fighting, and so was I.
A Bond Forged in Time
Weeks passed, and Jiuwan grew. His eyes brightened, his steps steadied, though his hind legs still faltered. One day, I found white worms in his stool.
My heart sank. The vet confirmed parasites, not feline plague, thank God. Acute gastroenteritis, he said. More medicine, more care.
I cleaned his messes, made a makeshift collar from a face mask to stop him from scratching. Jiuwan hated it, but he let me help.
He started exploring, tentative at first. He’d hide behind curtains, his little face peeking out. I’d call his name, and he’d tilt his head, curious.
He wasn’t just surviving; he was living. He’d lie on my shoes while I ate, his warmth a quiet comfort. Once, I caught him rummaging in the trash.
My throat tightened, imagining him scavenging before I found him. “This is your home now,” I whispered. He blinked, as if he understood.
But his body wasn’t done fighting. His toes turned black, the skin shrinking around the bone. The vet said amputation was the only way to save him.
I held him close after, his small body trembling. I kept his lost toes, a strange keepsake of his resilience. Jiuwan didn’t give up. Neither did I.
He healed, slowly. His belly swelled with constipation, but the vet reassured me. Jiuwan ate, played, and grew. He’d sprint for food, his awkward gait a badge of survival.
At three pounds, then ten, he was no longer the frail kitten I’d found. He was Jiuwan, my companion.
A Life Shared
Jiuwan changed my home. He broke bowls, stole hair ties, and chewed my keyboard. I scolded him, but his big eyes disarmed me. He’d sleep on my lap, his purrs softening the edges of long days.
At night, he’d leap onto my bed, chasing my feet under the blankets. I’d laugh, my heart lighter than it had been in years.
He loved water, splashing in the sink while I washed dishes. My friend said he was guarding me, not playing. I liked that thought. Jiuwan, my protector.
He’d wait by the bathroom door, his small form a quiet sentinel. When I worked, he’d curl up nearby, his presence a steady anchor.
His little sister arrived, a new kitten to share his world. They’d wrestle, share water, and nap together on the couch. Jiuwan, once alone, now had a family.
He grew bolder, opening drawers, hiding in closets. His tabby stripes gleamed, his eyes bright with mischief. He was beautiful, and he was mine.
Sometimes, I’d find him staring out the window, his gaze distant. I wondered what he remembered of the street, of the life before me.
But then he’d turn, meow, and demand food, and the past would fade. Jiuwan was here, now, with me.
He wasn’t perfect. He’d knock over cups, scratch curtains, and once, he used my bed as a litter box. I’d sigh, clean up, and forgive him.
How could I not? He’d lie on my legs, his warmth a reminder of how far we’d come. I’d saved him, but he was saving me too.
Jiuwan’s first birthday came. I hadn’t known his exact birthdate, but I counted from the day I found him. He was a year old, a survivor.
I baked a tiny cake, more for me than him. He ignored it, chasing a toy fish instead. I laughed, my heart full.
This story was inspired by a quiet, touching video you can watch here. If it moved you, feel free to support the original creator.