Fate has backed me into a corner that’s keeping me up at night. On Wednesday, I trapped my first truly feral kitten and took him straight in to be neutered—a small win for rescue work, but a heavy battle for my heart.
The vets estimate he’s only about 16 weeks old, and they advised me to release him back outside as soon as he recovers. But since he’s been here, that “right” path has started to feel like betrayal. He’s still just a baby—so vulnerable. When I come close, he freezes in fear, but he lets me touch him without lashing out. In those moments I keep wondering: is this the fear of a wild animal… or the timid knocking of a soul that actually belongs by a warm heater?
Right now he’s living in the corner of my bathroom—a trembling little bundle of fur trying to disappear into the tile. It tears me apart to see him so lost. I know what waits for him out there: the hard fight to survive, the cold, the loneliness. In here, he has safety, food, and for the first time in his short life, a hand that means him no harm.
I named him Jaro. He sits in that corner waiting for a decision that will shape his entire future. I’m looking for reassurance that my hesitation isn’t selfishness—it’s compassion. Four months old is not an age to give up. It’s an age to learn what comfort even means.
Maybe he isn’t a “hopeless case.” Maybe he’s just a little guest who doesn’t know yet that he’s already home.
