I don't understand people who get a pet for self-affirmation or to demonstrate their "teaching" talents, and then throw it out the door or, worse, physically punish it. Although, it's unclear which is worse.
These unfortunate caregivers live next door to me. They would throw their pet out the door at every opportunity. At first, I thought it was a way to train the cat to go outside. But when I began to notice the frightened fluffball sitting in the cold entryway for hours, staring devotedly at the owner's door, I realized the owners were punishing him for some misdeed. Sometimes, either from hunger or from the cold, after long hours of being disciplined, the cat would begin scratching at the door. Then the owner would step in, coming out and beating the poor thing with a broom. Or the owner would douse him with water from a mug. It was an unpleasant sight, but I didn't want to interfere, although I sincerely pitied the kitty.
It was a cold winter—minus 18 degrees Celsius had been hovering for two weeks now. And our entryway only has heating, perfunctorily. The weather was miserable: snow piled high, and the wind chilled me to the bone. In such weather, they say a good owner won't kick out a bad dog... They won't kick out a dog, but Ryzhik met me on the steps of the entryway as I was returning tired from work late one evening. The shivering, sad little fellow sat in his now-familiar spot, meekly awaiting forgiveness. Upon seeing me, the cat stood up and timidly took a few steps toward me, as if seeking protection. I couldn't resist and picked him up. The completely frozen creature suddenly snuggled up to me and began purring pitifully. I covered him with the lap of my coat and, without understanding why, continued upstairs to my floor. Fluffy continued purring and seemed to be warming up. Then I realized I couldn't leave this creature to spend the night in the cold entryway, and besides, it was high time to teach the negligent owners a lesson. I took Ryzhik home for the night.
The cat turned out to be unusually affectionate. After a quick snack, the little one settled down next to me. And for the night, he settled on the bed at the foot of my bed. At every opportunity, Ryzhik (as I immediately named him) snuggled up to me, constantly purring gratefully.
The long-awaited day off had arrived—I wasn't rushing to work, and I certainly wasn't rushing to get rid of my new companion. However, around midday, voices began coming from outside the front door: the neighbors, the whole family, had come out looking for their pet. They called him in every way, beckoned him with every enticement, and made every promise. I thought it was time to let Ryzhik out and send him to his owners. Just as I picked him up and approached the door, the kitten heard familiar voices coming from the entryway and the street. The little one clutched my hand in terror and refused to let go. I lowered him to the floor—Ryzhik darted into the room, crawled under the bed, and huddled deep. It became clear that the animal absolutely did not want to return to his owners.
I didn’t insist any more, Ryzhik stayed with me.
Six months have passed. We live in perfect harmony with our kitty—he's not a pet, but an angel. I can't understand what kind of misdeeds the little one could have done to deserve such a punishment. The neighbors don't know I stole their pet. Maybe I'm wrong. But even if they ever see my furry wonder, perhaps in the window, I still won't return him—I'll think of something...
Lyudmila
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