This was something I needed to get off my chest.
I've only known Oliver for 2 days. He doesn't know me at all. Oliver came to me at the crematory, already having crossed the rainbow bridge. Oliver isn't my cat, nor do I know the owner at all. I also don't have any pictures of him before he left this world. But his story, his last day on Earth, hurt me to my soul.
Oliver is a beautiful orange tabby with a white chest and feet. He was a stray who eventually found someone to give him that extra bit of love he rightfully deserved. Oliver would roam.the neighborhood where he lived, finding food wherever he could until one day, a lady (we'll call her P) started to put food out for him on a regular basis. Soon, he had a blanket too. Then one day, he got to come inside! At nights he would stay inside, with a bed, a cat tree, food and water. During the day, he'd be back out roaming the streets he knew so well. That is, until someone decided they'd use him for their own enjoyment.
Oliver was shot in the back with a BB gun. His back legs stopped working. Knowing only one place to go, he drug himself for miles, using his front legs only while his back legs lay limp, scraping across the pavement. He made it to the one place he considered home, back feet completely destroyed. By the time his family found him and tried to get him to a vet, it was too late.
When the family told me this story, it registered in my mind, but I wasn't completely connected with it. With my job, I hear stories every single day, but when I was asked to take ink prints on Oliver, it was only when I saw him and his back legs that I felt their story. The story became a harsh reality of a handsome orange tabby who finally found a home, only to give everything he had just to make it back there one more time.
I wanted to write this so Oliver will have another place to call home. Another home he deserved. A place where he's seen for who he was, a gentle soul who just wanted to be loved. Rest in peace, Oliver. You're home again.
I've only known Oliver for 2 days. He doesn't know me at all. Oliver came to me at the crematory, already having crossed the rainbow bridge. Oliver isn't my cat, nor do I know the owner at all. I also don't have any pictures of him before he left this world. But his story, his last day on Earth, hurt me to my soul.
Oliver is a beautiful orange tabby with a white chest and feet. He was a stray who eventually found someone to give him that extra bit of love he rightfully deserved. Oliver would roam.the neighborhood where he lived, finding food wherever he could until one day, a lady (we'll call her P) started to put food out for him on a regular basis. Soon, he had a blanket too. Then one day, he got to come inside! At nights he would stay inside, with a bed, a cat tree, food and water. During the day, he'd be back out roaming the streets he knew so well. That is, until someone decided they'd use him for their own enjoyment.
Oliver was shot in the back with a BB gun. His back legs stopped working. Knowing only one place to go, he drug himself for miles, using his front legs only while his back legs lay limp, scraping across the pavement. He made it to the one place he considered home, back feet completely destroyed. By the time his family found him and tried to get him to a vet, it was too late.
When the family told me this story, it registered in my mind, but I wasn't completely connected with it. With my job, I hear stories every single day, but when I was asked to take ink prints on Oliver, it was only when I saw him and his back legs that I felt their story. The story became a harsh reality of a handsome orange tabby who finally found a home, only to give everything he had just to make it back there one more time.
I wanted to write this so Oliver will have another place to call home. Another home he deserved. A place where he's seen for who he was, a gentle soul who just wanted to be loved. Rest in peace, Oliver. You're home again.
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