Further down is a spot that has been in existence for years, and has always puzzled me. There dogs who are lugubrious and malodorous are near the sidewalk in cages. It's a dismal sight and I usually walk out in the street to pass it without having to look.
The other day, I steeled myself, walked past, and there in a cage was one small kitten. I stopped of course, and it was eager for whatever I had to give, but when I asked the woman at the nearby noodle stall about it, she assured me that it was not good, and pantomimed the gouging of claws.
Yesterday, after seeing the lovely boutique cats, I walked past the kitten, who was attacking the hell out of some paper in its cage, but stopped to come up to look at me like "Well, what are we going to do about this?"
I returned home with the full intention of adopting it and began pleading my case to she who must be obeyed, our housekeeper, Jessia. With the help of a dictionary, one of my housemates and much dramatic intonation and facial expressions, I managed to get the story across.
Jessia's face turned sympathetic and in her turn, with the same linguistic aids, told me that those animals are all terminally ill and some people provide a sort of hospice service for them before they die.
That particular kitten will never live with me, although in true feline fashion, it quite clearly chose me while staring inquisitively and somewhat imperiously from his cage. All I can do is offet the guardians of the hospice some money to help with the care they provide and hope this little animal has lots of paper to shred into confetti during the time he has left to be an attack cat.