One of the finest, most energetic little kittens you could ever find.
She was barely a foot long when my aunt brought her into our home, hoping we would take care of her because we already had kittens of our own.
And she was right. We did.
But when she arrived, our Chiko seemed to disappear into silence. It was as if she suddenly didn’t exist. She slept almost the entire day, kept to herself, and barely made a sound.
It hurt us. Of course it did.
But how could we simply leave that tiny baby behind?
Then came the twist.
One of my friends insisted on adopting her. He had been genuinely fond of cats for years, and he wanted her. We thought about it and eventually convinced ourselves that maybe this was what would be best for her.
Raising three kittens was difficult for us, too. And she was such a playful little thing. Maybe she would be happier somewhere she could have all the attention and space she deserved.
“She can enjoy anywhere,” my aunt had said.
I guess she was right.
Later that week, the day came when I had to take her to my friend.
I didn’t have a cage, so I put her inside a cardboard box and made two little holes for air.
The moment I placed her inside, she looked at me.
Those big, Bambi-like eyes.
She stared at me as if she were asking, Why are you doing this?
And somehow, I could see it.
The fear.
The confusion.
The betrayal.
She didn’t understand where I was taking her. She only knew that the person who had cared for her was suddenly putting her inside a box and taking her away.
I hated myself in that moment.
But I gathered whatever strength I had left and got on my bike with my brother.
We hadn’t even gone very far when she tried to escape.
She pushed her tiny head through the little hole I had made, forcing herself through it with every ounce of strength in her tiny body, as if her life depended on getting out.
Maybe, to her, it did.
I grabbed her by the neck to stop her from getting through.
But she kept struggling.
So I held her tighter.
And that was the moment that broke something inside me.
The hands that had fed her were now holding her back.
The same hands she trusted were the ones stopping her from escaping.
I looked at her and saw it again.
That look of fear.
That look of heartbreak.
That look of betrayal.
And I thought—
I failed her again.
Even now, I can still feel the warmth of her fur against my fingertips.
Only later did I realize what she had been asking me for.
She wasn’t trying to fight me.
She was asking me to let her go.
And I was holding her with a grip that was far too rigid, terrified that she would fall, terrified that she would escape, without realizing that I might have been hurting her.
She was just a baby.
She didn’t know why I was taking her away.
She didn’t know that I thought I was doing it for her.
All she knew was that the person she trusted was taking her somewhere she didn’t want to go.
And I…
I don’t even have the words to explain the guilt I feel right now.
Because maybe I was trying to give her a better life.
Maybe my aunt was right.
Maybe my friend really will love her.
Maybe she will be happier there.
But none of that changes what I saw in her eyes that day.
And I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.
