It was late, and I saw a dead cat in the street. I went to get him off the street and take him to the vet the next morning so his owner could get closure.
When I went to pick him up, he moved his head slightly and gave one of the weakest meows I’d ever heard. I rushed home as fast as I could, put him on my bed, and called every vet in the area to find one that was open. I found one and took him to the car.
He was a light cat and didn’t have a microchip. The vet determined he was most likely a stray, and an x-ray showed he had two broken legs and a broken rib. Through it all, he couldn’t stop purring; it was very weak, but it was there. The vet said that since the bills would be so high and there was no owner, the best thing to do was to euthanize him and leave the room.
I couldn’t leave. I decided he needed someone eventually, but then I realized I couldn’t let that happen. I was sure he had an owner who would be devastated to see him like this, and I would find him.
When he was in his cast, he tried desperately to follow me, but his legs were outstretched like paddles on a boat, earning him the nickname Paddlefoot, Pad for short. It stuck. My best friend of nine years now.
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