“People are too emotional about pets.”
I read that last one three times.
Too emotional.
As if emotion was a weakness.
As if love only counts when it is efficient.
As if the value of a life should be measured by how long it can entertain us.
I wanted to respond to every one.
I wanted to tell them Amos was not a broken appliance.
He was not a poor choice.
He was not a sad little project for a lonely divorced woman.
He was a living soul who had already survived losing everything.
But I waited.
Then I posted one more photo.
This time, it was Amos sitting in the old chair.
My ex-husband’s chair.
Sunlight on his gray face.
One paw hanging over the armrest like he owned the whole world.
I wrote:
Some people think love is only worth giving when it has years guaranteed. I think that is why so many hearts are empty.
That post spread even faster.
By evening, my phone would not stop buzzing.
Marnie called me from the shelter.
“What did you do?” she asked.
I froze.
“What happened?”
“We’ve had calls all day asking about senior cats.”
I sat down hard on the kitchen chair.
“What?”
“All day,” she said. “People asking for the old ones. The shy ones. The long-term ones.”
I looked at Amos.
He was washing one paw with great seriousness.
“Marnie,” I whispered.
Her voice cracked.
“One woman came in and said, ‘Show me the one nobody asks for.’”
I covered my mouth.
For a moment, I could not speak.
Amos looked up at me, annoyed by my noise.
That made me laugh and cry at the same time.
The next Saturday, I went back to the shelter with donations.
