One day right after we got him, the orange streak slowed down and stopped. Suddenly, the kitten didn’t want to play anymore. He snuggled into my lap and shivered. I stroked his head and spoke softly to him.
After the second day that he couldn’t eat, we took him to the vet. I knew my mother didn’t have the money to spare, but she never mentioned it.
The vet said he could give the kitten a shot of antibiotics, but it didn’t come with a guarantee. All we could do was keep him warm and try to keep him hydrated. The kitten mewed plaintively when the needle stabbed into his skin.
My face stretched long.
“I thought you only liked other people’s cats,” my mother said.
“I thought so too,” I said.
That night, the kitten dozed on a corner of my blanket, barely breathing.
Then, with daybreak I found the kitten looking for a way down off my bed. He was weak, and he was unsteady, but he was curious again, and he was hungry.
My mother smiled. “He’s quite a little trooper, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is.” I said. “Trooper.”
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