He Would Have Been

 He was tiny, so tiny, he could fit in the palm of my hand. He was weak, so weak that he had to be fed from a dropper and he shook when you touched him. He was just a baby, with fuzzy white paws half the size of my fingernails and little gray ears that laid flat against his head. His soulful black eyes had an almost cloudy appearance to them. He didn't make any noise, but when picked up he purred softly, very softly, almost like he didn't want you to know he was happy.

 He had a condition, a condition I can't recall the name of, but it had a big long name that scares you off when you hear it. It was a brain condition, and the chances of it improving were slim to none. He had no coordination. He could hardly stand, and he shook if he wasn't covered by a towel or a blanket. But he was just a baby. He would grow stronger, I thought.

 He wasn't mine. I just worked there. I saw thousands of animals come in bearing pains and sufferings worse than this kitten's. Everything from animals without eyes, legs, and one even without a hip. They got along fine. I worked at a horse farm, where there was a horse with a neural condition similar to schizophrenia in humans. But she got along fine. I figured this kitten would cope, he would get along fine as well.

 After being treated in the hospital for a day, the vet asked me to bring him into the exam room with his owners so they can make a "desicion." She told them that he would grow up, and function fine. She said he'd make a good pet, he would be a good cat just a little different from all the rest. They would have to stay up tonight, and feed him each hour to make sure he made it through the night, and then bring him back tomorrow for more treatments. "But he would be a good cat," she said, "Just a little more work than the usual."

 They asked us to leave the room. They had to have a moment alone, to decide what they were going to do. I thought that it was already clear: This animal still had a chance at a good quality of life. The vet said it. He was just a baby. About a half hour later, they told the doctor it was too much work. They didn't want a cat who shook when he stood. They didn't want a cat that didn't meow, and they didn't want to stay up all night to feed it through a dropper. They wanted to put it down. And I guess to stop any of the workers from taking it home, they wanted the body back to bury it.

 The doctor and I left, and we all gathered in the surgery room to comfort the kitten in his last minutes. He was so small, but he was alive. Just a baby. Not an hour ago had he been laying in my hand, drinking milk from the dropper. The doctor administered the shot, and we waited. But he kept shaking. He moved his paws, and he moved his tail. So she gave him another shot. And still he shoke, still he moved his paws and tail. He didn't want to die. He wanted to grow up. He looked up at us, blinked his eyes, as if to wonder why the world was so unfair. He would have been a good cat. Yes, he would have been a very good cat.

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