I Adopt Old Cats

A pound is a medieval dungeon, an asylum, a jail. Imagine all the ways life had to screw you over to get stuck there. Maybe you did something wrong, but most likely, life dealt you a raw deal. Bad luck is all it takes to ruin the rest of your life.

Young kittens get adopted first. They can be molded into the perfect companions. They won’t die for years. Besides, no one wants to see a child in jail, but an adult? You must be there for a reason, right? The older you are, the longer you stay. The odds stack against you with years. Longer and longer. Less and less hope. Closer and closer to euthanization. Waiting. Alone. Unloved. Despair. Death will claim you with no one to care that you lived.

Unless, by some statistical unlikelihood, you get adopted. Someone sees you, and despite your years, stubborn ways, and indecipherable quirks, someone loves you as you are.

I adopt old cats. Many will die in my lifetime. I will love as many as I can.