This is the ninth in a series of autobiographical short stories by author Rita Antoinette Borg, collectively titled A Funny Thing Happened to Me….

In New York, my father brought me wounded pigeons, sparrows, and stray puppies and a ginger cat named Jason.   I had always been an animal lover.

I would bring the hurt birds or lost nestlings back to health to return them to the skies of New York City.

Yet more traumatic were the puppies and that one cat named Jason; they made me want to become a veterinarian until I found out about the part where you put down animals.

I believe dad found the birds along the nooks and crannies of the Gothic design of our synagogue building. Fledglings often fell from nesting areas along the edges of the building; I cannot remember the number of small birds I cared for throughout my childhood. 

But as I said, puppies and this cat were different.

Dad brought Jason to me on a windy October afternoon of my fourth-grade year in 1971.  I had finished my homework when dad stepped into the living room and said,

“Rita, I have something for you!”

Jason, a kitten smaller than my two cupped hands, wasn't what I wanted- a dog- but he was good enough to love.

Jason bore a resemblance to yellow tigers and had the appetite to prove it. To the annoyance and opposition of my parents, I gave him my dinner. All of it! He ate it all to the very last lick. He looked like a tiny kitten with a huge tummy ready to explode.

As a kid, my bedtime was at 8.30pm, without question, moaning or whimpering.

However, Jason was new to these unbending rules. He was still hungry, and on hearing my father sitting down for his dinner, he went to beg my dad,

“Meow, Please, sir, can I have some more??”

Dad was not amused,

"Ritaaaaaa !!!”

I climbed out of bed to get Jason out of trouble, and then because I had climbed out of bed, I got into trouble.

I cried for the life of my defenceless Jason; the kitten I had just met only five and a half hours ago: a gift from my father

After this occurred in quick succession three times, dad saw something. I would never have seen it, as I loved Jason already with all my heart.  Jason had redness in the white of his eyes. He had white cloudy discharge seeping out. He blinked excessively with one eye while keeping the other eye tightly closed.

In no uncertain terms, my father cried out his decree,

“If that cat does not have clear eyes by tomorrow morning, he will not last long in this house, understand me, Rita?"

He wagged his finger at me.

"It's back to the street for that thing!”

Nodding, I understood all too well.

I grabbed Jason from the kitchen floor, ran to my bed, cuddled him in my arms, and furiously wept. My heart felt like it broke into tiny fleshy-lumpy pieces trapped between my throat and lungs.

I had to do something to save my kitten from sure death on the city streets.

So I prayed. I prayed hard to God, the Creator of all things big and small. I needed a miracle fast!

I cried for the life of my defenceless Jason; the kitten I had just met only five and a half hours ago: a gift from my father.

It was a long night for this 10-year-old girl in the city that never sleeps. Police cars and ambulances wailed outside my bedroom, as teardrops streaked down my face, which, in turn, fell onto my kitten's eyes. I didn’t sleep.

In the morning, low and behold, a miracle did occur. Somehow my salty tears cleared Jason's pus-filled eyes. I was elated!

My father came into my bedroom to take Jason away before I went to school. I propped Jason in front of his face and cried out,

“He’s cured! He’s cured!”

Dad didn't believe in miracles, but I did!

Nonetheless, this story ends on a sad note. My mother has always ranted that animals and a clean house cannot coexist. My parents took Jason away from me one given day. After school, as I rushed to find him, he was gone.

It’s funny, yet desperately sad, how children and animals are powerless and must bow to the circumstances that are set before them in life. There are no two more innocent creatures in this harsh world than a heartbroken child and an animal just wanting to live their short lives in peace and love.

Are you a writer interested in finding an audience for your work? Get in touch on editor@timesofmalta.com with 'storytelling' in the subject line.

 

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