The cat’s eyes caught the sunlight, wide and searching. Her belly sagged, heavy with life.
She stood on the cracked pavement, a stray in a world that barely noticed. Her fur was matted, her steps careful, but she moved toward me when I called.
A soft meow, almost a whisper, answered my voice. She circled my legs, brushing against my jeans, her warmth a quiet plea. I knelt, and her gaze held mine—trusting, hungry, unafraid.
Her belly was round, too round for her thin frame. Kittens were coming, soon. She ate the scraps I offered, her jaws working fast, like she hadn’t tasted food in days.
I watched her, wondering how she’d carry on, alone, with babies to feed. My heart tugged, a slow ache. We had a cat at home already, another stray we’d taken in. But this one—she needed me.
I ran home, grabbed a can of tuna. She was still there, waiting, her eyes fixed on the spot where I’d left. She devoured the food, licking the can clean.
I sat on the curb, watching her eat, the world quiet except for her soft chewing. She looked up, grateful, and I knew we couldn’t leave her.
A Place to Rest
We brought her home, my husband and I. The vet said she’d give birth in a week, maybe less. Her name came easy—Guai Guai, good girl—because she was. She rubbed against my hand, purring, her trust so complete it hurt to see.
We set up a corner for her, a soft blanket in a cardboard box. I bought a proper birthing area, lined it with towels, and checked it twice a day. Guai Guai watched me, her eyes calm, like she knew I’d keep her safe.
Each night, I sat by her box, stroking her head. She’d close her eyes, leaning into my touch. Our other cat, Jiu Wan, peered from the doorway, curious but cautious.
Guai Guai didn’t mind. She was tired, her body heavy with the work of creating life. I whispered to her, promising it would be okay. She blinked slowly, believing me.
The day came at noon. Guai Guai labored quietly, her breaths steady. Seven kittens arrived, tiny and squirming, their eyes still shut.
She cleaned them, one by one, her tongue gentle but sure. I fed her extra, watching her strength return. The kittens nestled close, their small bodies warm against her. I smiled, my chest full.
A Fragile Loss
Morning light spilled through the window. I checked the box, counting the kittens. One lay apart, still, its body cool. My stomach sank. It was different from the others, too small, too quiet.
I mixed formula, fed it with a dropper, hoping. I wrapped it in a cloth, placed it in warm water to raise its temperature.
Its chest barely moved. I tried, pressing gently, willing its heart to beat. But its body stiffened, then turned pale, a faint purple creeping in.
I held it, tears blurring my eyes. Guai Guai watched, her head low. We let her see her baby one last time, her nose touching its still form. We buried it under a tree, a small box with food tucked inside, a quiet goodbye.
The other kittens slept, unaware. I sat with Guai Guai, my hand on her back, her warmth a steady comfort. Life went on, but the loss lingered, soft and heavy.
The remaining kittens grew, their colors blooming—gray, black, one with white patches. Two struggled to nurse, their tiny mouths searching. I fed them formula, careful not to overwhelm them. One spat it out, weak, its eyes dull.
The vet had no answers, just told us to keep trying. I did, every hour, but its strength faded. Another small box, another quiet burial. My heart ached, but Guai Guai’s steady gaze kept me grounded.
Healing in Time
Guai Guai faltered days later. Her appetite waned, her food untouched. A scab formed on her chin, rough and red. I thought it was an old wound, a mark from her days on the street. The vet’s words were gentle but firm—stomatitis, painful sores in her mouth.
No wonder she couldn’t eat. I blended fish into soup, mashed it soft, and fed her by hand. She lapped it up, her eyes brighter. I gave her medicine daily, her trust never wavering.
She ate again, three cans a day, then four. Her milk flowed, and the kittens grew plump, their bellies round. Their teeth came in, tiny and sharp. They tumbled over each other, wrestling, chasing shadows.
Jiu Wan watched, sometimes joining, his tail flicking. I swept the floor, and the kittens stared, confused, growling softly. I laughed, the sound light in the quiet house.
Two months passed. The kittens ate solid food, used the litter box, their fur sleek and shining. One, a female, had eyes like stars, bright and clear. They played, fearless, their small bodies strong.
Guai Guai’s mouth healed, her chin smooth again. She ate heartily, her strength back, her purr a low hum. I watched them all, my heart full but heavy with the weight of care.
The kittens were ready for homes, their colors vivid, their spirits bright. We kept the female, her starry eyes too dear to let go.
Guai Guai stayed, too, her place with us certain. She curled beside me at night, her warmth a quiet promise. Jiu Wan joined us, the three of us a small family, bound by trust.
Each day, I watched them grow, their small victories a gift. Guai Guai’s loyalty, her gentle faith, carried me through. The kittens’ play, their soft growls, filled the house with life.
I thought of the ones we lost, buried under the tree, and felt the ache. But Guai Guai’s steady gaze, her quiet strength, reminded me—love endures, even in loss.
This story was inspired by a quiet, touching video you can watch here. If it moved you, feel free to support the original creator.