That word stayed with me long after they took him to the back. Fighting. For something so small, survival seemed like an enormous task. The clinic smelled of antiseptic and quiet worry. Machines hummed softly in the treatment room as Dr. Harper inserted the IV catheter with careful precision. I stood in the corner, feeling useless and responsible all at once.
“He likely hasn’t eaten properly in days,” she explained. “Possibly longer. There’s also an infection brewing. We’ll start fluids and antibiotics immediately.” She glanced at me gently. “Do you want to give him a name?”
I hesitated. Naming something makes it real. It makes it yours. “Oliver,” I said finally. Dr. Harper smiled faintly. “Okay, Oliver. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The first night was the hardest. Oliver lay motionless except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. His eyes remained half closed, not fully unconscious, but not entirely present either. I sat beside the kennel long after visiting hours technically ended.
“You don’t have to stay,” the overnight technician, Marcus, told me kindly.
“I know,” I replied. “But I think he should wake up to someone.”
Around midnight, Oliver stirred slightly. His tiny paw twitched against the blanket. I leaned closer and whispered, “You’re safe now. You don’t have to survive alone.”
It felt foolish, talking to a kitten who could barely lift his head. Yet when his eyes fluttered open briefly, there was something there. Not understanding, perhaps, but recognition. As if he sensed warmth that wasn’t just from the heating pad.
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