The cat’s eyes caught the morning light, wide and trembling under the car. She tried to answer my call, her voice a faint, broken mew.
Her name wasn’t yet Xiao Bi Ga. She was just a shadow, curled tight against the tire, her small body shivering. Her paw, raw and open, glistened in the sun.
I knelt closer, my breath catching. The bone was exposed, the fur matted with dirt. She looked at me, not with fear, but with a quiet plea.
I couldn’t leave her there. My hands shook as I lifted her, her weight barely more than a whisper. The hospital was close. I drove fast, her soft cries filling the car.
The vet’s words were heavy. Too much damage, he said. Her paw was beyond saving. I felt my chest tighten, tears burning behind my eyes. I begged.
Please, try. He looked at me, then at her, and nodded. He’d do what he could. No promises. I sat in the waiting room, staring at the floor, imagining her small life slipping away. Two hours later, the door opened.
She was alive, tucked in an incubator, her eyes half-closed from the anesthesia. I reached out, my fingers brushing her fur. She didn’t move, but she was warm. That was enough for now.
A Name and a Home
I called her Xiao Bi Ga, Little Nose Ga, for the way her nose twitched when she smelled food. It was a hope, a prayer she’d make it through the night.
At home, I made a bed from old blankets, soft and warm. She lay there, still, her breathing shallow. I offered her food, but she turned away.
My heart sank again. I stroked her gently, and she purred, a soft rumble that felt like trust. I sat with her until the room grew dark, her small sounds keeping me company.
Each day, I carried her to the hospital. Infusions, bandages, iodine sprays four times a day. She didn’t fight, even when the medicine stung. Her eyes followed me, steady and calm.
The vet said she had a strong will to live. I believed him. On the third day, she licked her fur, a small act of pride. I smiled, watching her try to be herself again.
I soaked freeze-dried food in goat’s milk, but she only drank, her tongue lapping slowly. I didn’t push her. She was trying, and that was enough.
By the fifth day, her paw was swollen, but new flesh was growing. The vet’s face softened. A good sign, he said. I exhaled, relief flooding through me.
Xiao Bi Ga’s appetite grew. She ate canned food in big, eager bites, her eyes bright with hunger. I held the bowl, letting her eat at her pace.
She purred when I scratched her head, her trust a quiet gift. I started to believe she’d make it.
Small Victories
The days blurred into a rhythm. Feed her, spray the medicine, carry her to the hospital. She hated the pink bottle of iodine, her body tensing each time I reached for it.
But she let me spray, her eyes fixed on mine, as if she understood. I’d reward her with meat, her favorite, and she’d eat until her belly was round.
She stopped drinking the goat’s milk, turning picky as her strength returned. I laughed softly, amazed at her spirit.
On the eighth day, she walked to her bed alone. I watched, my heart full. Her cough was fading, her eyes clearer. The vet changed her bandage, marveling at her progress.
A miracle, he called it. I carried her home, her weight heavier now, her warmth steady against my chest. She miaowed when she saw me, a sound that felt like home.
I cleaned her bed, prepared her food, and sat with her as she ate. Her appetite was a quiet triumph, a sign of life returning.
By the fifteenth day, Xiao Bi Ga was rounder, her fur softer. She miaowed eagerly when I opened the fridge, her eyes following the meat.
She didn’t want to leave her bed, but she’d lean into my hand when I petted her. I saw her trust growing, her fear fading. The hospital visits became easier.
She sat calmly in her carrier, her gaze steady. The vet said her wound was closing, the bone no longer visible. I felt pride, not for me, but for her. She was fighting, and she was winning.
A New Beginning
On the twenty-eighth day, Xiao Bi Ga waited for her food, her eyes bright with expectation. She ate everything, her movements quick and sure.
I sprayed the iodine, and she barely flinched. The vet said her leg was healing beyond hope. She had energy now, darting from her carrier to her bed with a new lightness.
I watched her, my heart swelling. She was no longer the broken cat under the car. She was Xiao Bi Ga, strong and stubborn, claiming her place in the world.
By the hundred-and-thirteenth day, she was a different cat. Healthy, round, her fur gleaming. I bought her a scratching post, and she loved it, her claws digging in with joy.
She followed me around the house, rubbing against my legs, her purrs loud and constant. When I sat, she’d curl up close, her warmth a quiet comfort.
I added toys, a soft bed, a small world for her to explore. She made friends outside, chasing shadows in the yard. I watched her play, her movements free, her spirit whole.
She still miaowed for meat, her voice loud and demanding. I’d laugh, cutting it into small pieces, holding the bowl as she ate.
She’d look at me, her eyes soft, and I’d feel seen. Not just by her, but by something bigger, something quiet and true.
Xiao Bi Ga had come through pain and fear, and she’d carried me with her. We’d both healed, in our own way.
This story was inspired by a quiet, touching video you can watch here. If it moved you, feel free to support the original creator.