Kitten in the rain

⏱ ~4 min reading

The rain started suddenly. Marinka was walking home from school when the sky turned dark gray, as if someone had covered it with a wet handkerchief. The drops fell immediately, big and heavy.

Marinka pulled her hood up and accelerated. There were two turns left before the house.

She had almost reached her entrance when she heard.

Something subtle.

Something like a very thin squeak.

Marinka stopped. She lifted her hood to hear better.

The rain was making noise. But through it — again. Thinly. Pathetically. From somewhere in the bushes near the bench.

Marinka came up.

In the bush — between the wet branches — something moved. Gray. Small.

Kitten.

Very small, with thin, wet fur, with eyes that had not yet fully opened. It was sitting on the bare ground. It was trembling. Its paws were very thin. Its tail clung to its body like a wet thread.

The kitten meowed—weakly, with effort. It must have been meowing for a long time.

Marinka sat down. The rain was pouring down on her face.

— Where are you from?

The kitten didn't answer. It just meowed again—something was rattling in its throat.

Marinka looked around. No one. No mother cat. No owners. No box, from which one could assume that the kitten was just playing.

The kitten was just that. And wet. And about to freeze.

Marinka took off her scarf — a woolen one with green stripes. She carefully stretched out her hands.

The kitten twitched. But it was so weak that it couldn't move away.

Marinka took it in her scarf, like a soft cradle. The kitten weighed less than an apple. She pressed it to her jacket, covered it with her palm, and ran home.

In the entrance under the stairs she stopped - shook the water off her jacket. The kitten in the scarf meowed faintly. Not scared - surprised.

Mom was in the kitchen, cooking soup. Marinka came in without taking off her boots.

— Mom.

— Marinka, boots!

— Mom, just look.

Marinka unfolded the scarf. Carefully placed the kitten on the table.

Mom looked at me. She was silent. Then she sat down on a chair.

— Oh, just a little.

"It was in the rain. Exactly. In the bushes. Mom, you can't put it back.".

"And I'm not saying anything back. I'm just... a little bit.".

Marinka stood there, breathless. She was afraid that her mother would suddenly say "no.".

But Mom got up. She took a clean cotton cloth out of the drawer. She poured some warm water on it. She came over.

— Pass it on to me.

Mom carefully wiped the kitten. It hardly resisted. Only when mom wiped its paws did it meow softly.

Then mom unfolded the towel, put the kitten inside. She held it to her chest. She sat like that for about five minutes — she didn't say anything.

Marinka watched.

“Is it warm?” she asked in a whisper.

“Almost.” Mom smiled. “Do you know what the difference is between heat and warmth?”

- What?

— Milk is warm. And the hand is alive. A kitten needs a hand. Because it has a heart.

Marinka didn't fully understand. But when her mother put the kitten on her lap (she sat on the floor, next to the battery), the kitten clung to her as if to its mother. It curled up. It calmed down. It purred — faintly, faintly, like a small motor in cotton wool.

That evening, the kitten drank milk from a saucer. It turned out that it already knew how to drink, not quite a baby.

They named him Tysha. Because when he was silent and purred, the house became quiet and good.

In the morning dad said:

"And where will it sleep?"

"I have it," Marinka said immediately. "In my legs.".

Dad smiled.

— Well, in the legs, in the legs.

A month later, Tisha was already running around the apartment like a real cat. She was catching fluff, jumping on the curtains. She grew up rapidly.

But in the evenings, she always climbed onto Marinka's lap. She curled up in a ball. She listened to the girl's heart beat.

Because for Tysha, the main thing wasn't milk. Not a plate. Not a toy with feathers.

For Tysha, the most important thing was the hand. The warm, living one that was the first to pull her out of the rain.