Behold! A rescued cat nugget.
I was going to do another Weird Instruments That Don’t Suck video.
Because I have this very weird, very non-sucky instrument to show you.
Except I’m doing something else.
And I totally blame the cat.
Well, to be more specific, the kitty.
So, really, a cat nugget.
Putting Tim on pause
See, last night we found a kitten.
And I don’t mean found as in went-to-the-local-animal-rescue found. More like found-behind-our-air-conditioning-unit-in-40-degree-weather found.
Yeah.
It was kind of late. Like 10:30.
My wife was in the basement. I was watching Project Runway. (Yeah, I just admitted that publicly.) We both heard this noise that sounded kind of like a bird. But not really.
I put Tim Gunn on pause. She came upstairs. We’re both standing in the kitchen. Listening to this weird not-really-a-bird-but-what-the-hell-is-it sound.
It was a kitten.
And it sounded like it was in trouble.
So I grabbed my coat. My wife traded her Invader Zim slippers for more sensible shoes. And off we went to find the little nugget.
Because it’s late October. In Ohio. And it’s like 40 frakking degrees at night.
And because we both love animals. More than chocolate. Or ninjas. Or Project Runway.
We followed the little chirpy sound around the house, down the neighbor’s drive, to our air conditioning unit. And there was the kitten, wedged between the AC and the corner of our house.
Fuzzy little gray ball. With blue eyes. And a really loud voice.
Cutest. Kitten. Ever.
I managed to squeeze past the air conditioner. And the thick bushes with thorns. I scooped the little guy up, wrapped him in a fuzzy green blanket and brought him inside.
Wait. What did you just say?
Fast forward to this morning. When, looking at this gorgeous little ball of gray fur, I thought what the %$#@ do I do now?
I shot an email off to a friend who does a bunch of rescue work with animals. I figured she might be able to take this little guy in. Or, at the very least, she’d know what three week old fuzz balls eat.
Then I got busy googling “how to take care of orphaned kitties.”
While googling away I got a call from another friend. Who heard the kitty that sounds like a bird in the background.
So I explained our adventure last night. And how cute the kitty is. And how he has the coolest gray stripes. And how I couldn’t talk long because I was just getting ready to leave to pick up some Kitten Milk Replacer formula so I could bottle-feed him.
Their response?
You should have left it outside.
Wait. What?
Yeah, it’s probably sick. That’s probably why its mother abandoned it.
You shouldn’t interfere with nature.
It probably has FIV. Or feline leukemia. Or something.
So it’ll probably die.
Someone I work with tried to save a cat she found outside.
She spent like $2,000. And it died anyway.
Why would you go get all attached like that?
You should have just left it outside.
What?!
Seriously.
You shouldn’t get involved.
The odds are it’s just going to die.
So let me make sure I’ve got this straight.
Because this tiny feline nugget may or may not be sick and the odds may or may not be in his favor, I should have just said screw it and left him outside to die?
Uh, no.
Eff the odds
I say eff the odds.
See, here’s the thing.
Aside from the fact that even the thought of leaving a kitten outside to die goes against every single thing I’m about, this whole screw-it-the-odds-suck idea is perceptual poison.
I work with people every single day who are stuck and struggling and in pain. Sometimes they’re as close to hopeless as it gets. The odds are totally stacked against them.
People on every side may have given up on them. They may even be pretty close to giving up on themselves.
But they’re like this little cat nugget. They cry out for help. Because they’re scared. Or lonely. Or in so much pain, on one level or another, that all they can do is cry.
They reach out.
Even when the odds aren’t in their favor.
And they keep reaching out. Just like this kitty. Who kept meowing in the dark until we found him.
Why I don’t care about the odds
Despite the fact that they’re hurting and afraid and in a situation that looks a lot like a three week old abandoned kitten wedged behind an air conditioning unit in Ohio in late October these people reach out.
And, because of that, they connect to something that helps them.
So in spite of odds that may look pretty grim, or people who just gave up on them, their stuff shifts. Their pain lets up. They find some peace and quiet and happiness. And, with a little care, their life looks gorgeous again.
They don’t give up. And neither do I.
Because I really believe that there’s always reason to hope. Even when things look really, really bad. Even when everyone else has given up. Even if you’ve given up on yourself.
My friend said I’m naïve. But I’m not naïve.
Being hopeful isn’t the same as being naïve. They each come from different places.
I’m hopeful because I’ve seen peoples’ lives change in the most beautiful, amazing, I-can-barely-believe-it kind of ways. I’ve seen one person after another beat the odds.
Broken hearts put back together.
People who were totally lost finding their way.
Hurt that hurt for decades finally gone.
Relationships on their last leg coming back to life.
Folks making comebacks that look absolutely impossible.
I’m hopeful because I’ve seen myself go from being homeless – sleeping in the back seat of my car or in a scummy motel room with bullet holes in the walls – to getting back on my feet and really finding my groove.
And I’m hopeful because I saw a little three week old ball of fur fight and cry and not give up. He was scared and hungry and alone. And things looked really bad. But he didn’t give up.
How could I have possibly given up on him?
Take that crappy odds
So I guess that makes me one of those people who hold on to hope.
Not in an obnoxious life-is-always-great-and-everything-is-always-yummy way. Because it’s not. And I know that.
But I see really big, really hard, really scary stuff shift everyday.
So I don’t believe in giving up on someone or something just because things look bad. I don’t believe in leaving people or kittens or dreams or goals for dead, just because they’re facing crappy odds.
Hope can totally kick crappy odds’ ass in an arm wrestling match. Anytime. Anywhere. Any day. And there’s always reason to hope.
So, yeah, eff the odds.
My money’s on hope.