The old gentleman walked slowly into the veterinary
examining room
and laid the small bundle on the table.  He drew back
a cloth fold
to show me the tiny, lifeless body hidden inside.
"I got here as quickly as I could," he said sadly. "I
found it in
the ditch in front of my apartment building.  It was
still breathing
when I picked it up, but I don't know now...I think it
died on the
car ride over here."  The man's chin trembled as he
studied the
kitten.
"You know, I always liked cats. Can't have one where I
live now. I
just couldn't leave it there to die alone.  I really
don't know what
I was thinking when I picked it up, I just felt sorry
for it. I
can't afford to take care of it, and my landlord has a
no pets
policy."
I know the feeling all too well. Sometimes being a
Good Samaritan to
our animal friends can be a costly and disheartening
experience
despite our best intentions. If the kitten had lived,
it would not
have had a home after its recovery. The best I could
do for the old
man was to assure him that he had done his best. It
was a small
comfort to offer.
I said that I would take care of burying the little
patient for him,
and he seemed relieved. When he asked how much he
owed, I waved a
hand and told him, "Not a thing. We're just sorry we
couldn't do
something for it." Normally there is a burial fee, but
I felt that
we could ignore it this time. This gentleman didn't
seem to have
funds to spare, and it was such a tiny little thing to
bury, anyway.
He shook my hand and turned away sadly. After he left,
I realized he
hadn't even told me his name.
I turned back to the kitten lying on the table and
felt a regret
that its young life had been cut short.  It was a
black and white
kitten, not even old enough to be weaned. Its frail
body was very
thin. As I touched it, I could feel the delicate
skeletal structure.
Its eyes and nose were matted. It probably had a
respiratory
infection that it couldn't overcome.
Then it gasped.
I stared in surprise for a moment, then hurried to
alert the
veterinarian. He laid his stethoscope across the rib
cage and
listened, then murmured, "This kitten's not dead yet.
We still have
a chance." The room was suddenly alive with a flurry
of movement.
Everyone was busy at once, setting up a recovery room
and working on
the limp patient. It was wrapped in warm towels from
the dryer.
Injections were given and fluids started.
Several times that day I went back to the intensive
care cage and
checked on the tiny patient. It seemed to be at
death's door. The
breathing was rough and ragged, and it lay on its side
without
movement. But leaning over it, I could hear a faint
purr as I
stroked its head.
Unable to sleep that night, I thought about the tiny
kitten. Would
it survive? What would become of it?  Who would pay
the mounting
veterinary bill in the end? One thing I knew for sure
-- trying to
save it was the right thing to do.
Anxious to know the kitten's fate, I hurried to work
the next
morning. I peered into the recovery cage to see two
small eyes
staring back at me. The kitten stood up took a few
baby steps
towards me. 
"Hey there, sweetie! You're looking much brighter
today!" My heart
swelled with relief and happiness.  My little friend
just might make
it, after all. I rushed to open a can of the special
diet we keep
for invalid animals and waved a spoonful under its
nose. The kitten
attacked the food with gusto. Finally, with its
rounded tummy full,
it curled up for a nap.
The veterinarian checked the patient during his
rounds, and
pronounced it much improved over the day before. He
also told me
that my new cat was a little female.
"Oh, no, I can't keep her," I said sadly. "I already
have four cats
and that's really too many for me. But I think I can
find her a good
home." But can I really, I wondered? Not just any home
would do.
Over the next few days the kitten continued to
improve. Her matted
eyes turned a clear green color. A flea bath made her
hair coat
shiny and soft. The special diet was changed to kitten
food and she
began to put on weight. It wasn't long before her
recovery cage was
full of catnip toys and a stuffed puppy, all courtesy
of my
checkbook. I began to think of names, and finally
decided on Paige.
A small voice in my head whispered, "You know what
they say? If you
name them, they're yours. And you know you want her."
I tried not to listen.
Often during the day, I would stop by for a snuggle.
Paige would
work her way up under my chin and purr, happy and
content to be held
and loved. That insistent little voice said, "Four
cats aren't too
many. And besides, this is such a tiny one. How much
trouble could
one more little cat be? You know you can make it
work."
One day I opened her door, and Paige sprang through
the air and
landed in my arms. The purring was loud as she
snuggled close. The
vet tech said with a smile, "You know, I think she's
chosen you. You
just got yourself a new cat." I turned around to
protest, then
stopped. I had to be honest. I very much wanted this
precious
kitten. And obviously, she wanted me, too. With a
sense of relief, I
admitted that Paige now had a home.
And that stubborn small voice whispered, "Told you
so!"