Have you ever wondered what a day in the life of a cat looks like? I can imagine it would be very interesting and somewhat dangerous. I want to imagine that it isn’t too terribly hard or difficult, but it would be, at least for a cat in the US. It is estimated that there are between 60 and 100 million stray cats in the United States, and I’ve decided to imagine life as one of them.

What’s in a name? I will never know the answer because I will never have a name. Only fancy cats have names; only the ones that humans actually want. I’m just not an animal that people want. I know that. I’ve made my peace with that. Most humans just don’t like black cats, especially not black cats with torn ears, dirty fur caked with dried mud, or fur matted and twisted into knots. That doesn’t bother me. The only thing that does bother me is that my ribs jut out from my fur. That just means that I’m not eating enough. Everyone knows that, even the smallest kittens. So, of course, that means I’m looking for food. The food that us “scraps” get is never very good. It always has this particular, bad smell to it, or this bitter aftertaste, but you get used to it after moons of having it. That’s why we’re called scraps. We have to go after things that humans don’t like. We’re part of the things that humans don’t like. There’s a can of tuna in the corner of the trash I’ve been digging through. I wolf down the small bit that’s left. Instead of making my aching stomach feel better, it only makes it clench with the desire for more food. I jump down, landing rather ungracefully on the cement. Some cat had swiped at my tail a few sunrises ago, and it was still healing. I still couldn’t balance right. Suddenly, there’s a sharp sound to my left. Wingbeats, feet on the ground. . . A loud squawk. It’s a bird. A bird means that there’s a chance at food, and a chance at food means surviving just a bit longer.

Of course, the second I’m feeling good about something is the second I end up losing everything. I had just barely caught the bird, devouring the thing and leaving it there for the flies after I was done with it. I had been feeling taller than the highest branches of any tree, stronger than any lion, when the Animal Control van rolled around. I only knew what they were called because I remember one of the older cats on the street, who had named himself Storm, due to his graying fur, telling me that he had seen so many cats and dogs taken into the van, always with the same wicked pole. He had said that the look of terror in their eyes was something that, despite his age, he would never forget. If he was watching right now, if he was even alive, I would be one of those faces to add to his memories. I tried to run, scrambled for an idea to just get away, but they had already spotted me. The sound of their boots against the concrete was like a death sentence. And suddenly, there was something around my throat. I yowled, a natural sound of surprise, feeling my legs kicking even when I didn’t know what was happening. My throat was yanked on, and I was forced to go in the direction the pole dictated, even as I thrashed. I was thrown into the back of the human vehicle, my body shaking. There was nothing I could do, nowhere I could go. Even on the streets, at least I was free. Even on the streets, there was nobody except the local business owners who screamed at me in their language that was hard to understand and who could tell me where I could and couldn’t go. And now, I would be trapped in the building that always seemed to smell like crushed dreams and death. That building had always seemed so depressing, so hopeless. My stomach clenches. This time, though, it isn’t because of a lack of food, but anxiety. What’s waiting for me there? Death? More fights to keep my place? I hate the thought of more fights. A gash just above my tail hadn’t even healed yet.

I was tugged out into the open air, and I inhaled what could possibly be the last bit of fresh air I would ever get to experience. I might spend the rest of my life in this building that stunk of despair and wasted time. Or dead, I reminded myself. For some reason, I felt. . . Okay with the idea. At least if I was dead, I wouldn’t feel pain. Sure, I haven’t lived the best life, but at least I hadn’t died yet. At least I survived. And then, suddenly, when I’m finally starting to accept it, my body is yanked inside. The only thing I can think of is how silent it is. The stench of gloom is even worse, almost smelling sour now. I feel something in my fur, a weight at both of my sides. When I looked around, bewildered and frightened, I noticed the gloved hands of the man who had taken me into the van. The pole is off from around my neck, and my limp body is lifted by rough hands. I don’t feel the urge to squirm or struggle anymore. It’s hopeless anyway. There’s no point when I know that all that awaits me is death because I’m not wanted. I’m a scrap. Scraps don’t get chosen by humans. Scraps get tossed in with all the other trash. That’s never bothered me. But now, it just feels like a trip to the graveyards rather than just plain fact. I’m put in a little glass box and set down gently on a soft cushion that looks like it hasn’t been peed on. The human speaks in that same garbled tone that they all use, but I can tell by the way the leaf-green eyes stare into my very soul what the man means. Stay. I sit there, my bones numb with something that feels like hunger. Hunger feels empty, and so does this. But it isn’t hunger, because the aches and stabs of pain aren’t there. This just feels. . . Empty. 

When the door opens, I flinch. There’s movement at the door and I see two humans. One is small, but lanky, like I am. The other human is more broad, like a bull or large dog. They look like they are together. The shorter one points in my general direction. I look around, only to notice other cats in glass boxes just like mine. How do they look so comfortable here? I wonder, but my thoughts are interrupted when I hear loud, clumsy footsteps clambering over. The child stops right in front of me, and I stare right back at what I can now tell is a human male. They generally have shorter hair, and they seem somewhat shorter than the females at around that stage, which is completely different for cats. Something is wrong with the male’s face, though. It looks. . . bright, like it had just caught one of those tasty lightning bugs in its bony fingers. It is nothing like the disgusted looks I had received on the streets. The child’s teeth are showing, but instead of in a revolted shriek, a gap-toothed grin. Big brown eyes look at me. Actually look at me, like I’m something worth seeing. Even though I don’t think I’ve ever seen a human’s eyes convey such a thing, the words are clear. I want you. I like you. I’ve never been. . . Wanted before. Not ever. The next thing I know, I’m in a human shelter. It’s warm and soft with the glow of a thousand of the crunchy lightning bugs, and I feel my heart settle as the tiny human male’s breathing slows. My human, I remind myself. 

“G’night, Ghost.” I blink. I know that my human’s name is not named Ghost. Is there a ghost in the room? Before I can think about it much further, brown eyes open slowly, that same grin flashing at me. “I kinda forgot to tell you, but your name’s Ghost now. Do you like that name?”

Huh. . . Maybe there is some use in a name.

So basically, that is the kind of life that I have imagined for a random cat in the United States. There are struggles, and lots of them, but there is also that sweet relief of hope that they might finally be loved, or find the love that might have always been meant for them. It just feels nice to try and imagine myself as a cat, because it gives you another point of view, if you hadn’t already been looking for it. If you want to have a chance to give one of these stray cats in town a chance to be loved, to finally feel like they’re valued, visit Emporia Street Cats Club for more information.