Heartstrings tugged

The Shadows Have Eyes

Chapter Five

The Three Little Pigs

The kittens have grown. Mama Cat’s three spring babies, dark gray tabbies with identical stripes. Thay move like shadows across the porch at dawn. Not too long ago, there were just three flashes of fur, tiny things darting toward their mother’s bowl before vanishing into the hedges. Now, they arrive like clockwork, no longer the occasional guests, but a hungry trio that expects their breakfast.

They are wary. Skittish. Wild in that way feral cats are born to be. Yet this morning, one didn’t run. When I stood to go inside, it stayed, its wide eyes locked on me. For a heartbeat, it almost felt like trust. Almost.

I can’t afford this. Feeding Mama Cat has always been my silent promise. I have kept my word through every storm and season. But these three? They’re walking, breathing bottomless pits disguised as luffa sponges. Sweet, adorable, and absolutely ravenous.

If I could earn their trust, I would scoop them up, drive them to the SPCA, and give them a shot at warm laps and forever homes. But feral is feral. You can’t fix a wild heart overnight.

Inside, Juno watches them through the storm door, her tail lashing like a whip. I hear a soft growl growing louder, rumbling through her chest until it overpowers the hum of morning traffic. She’s angry, confused and even seems jealous, and I can’t blame her. I made a quiet promise to both of us that she would be my one and only. My girl. And I meant it. But how do you explain to a cat that the sight of those hungry little faces slice through me like glass? That I can’t just close the door to a story I helped write? I kneel, meeting her wide questioning eyes, eyes that still hold the echo of her own hunger not so long ago. “It’s been less than a week, sweetheart,” I whisper, my voice breaking on the words. “Don’t you remember how empty your belly was? How excited you became the moment Daddy came out with a fresh bowl? Well, that is how these little ones are feeling. I hope you understand.”

I am an old man and certainly do not wish to be known as “the cat lady of Rapid Run.” But how can I stop caring?

I have been watching them play in the neighbor’s yard for the past several months, tiny whirlwinds tumbling through the grass. They have their safe space, their little kingdom. But it’s my food that fills their bellies. When they look at me, those sharp kitten eyes say something more than hunger. They say, see me. Don’t give up on me.

And I crumble.

I tell myself I have reached my limit. I have taken in my stray, the one who wasn’t supposed to be tame and ended up stealing my heart. Juno is my responsibility now. There can be no others.

And then last night happened. Mama Cat arrived for dinner, quiet and alone. I filled her bowl, happy to see her. Thirty seconds later, the kids showed up, barreling onto the porch like a furry tornado. Two of the larger kittens, nearly twice her size now, tried to muscle her out of the way. But Mama Cat stood her ground. They seem to have forgotten; mamma is no pushover. In a blur of claws and hissing fury, she reminded them exactly who brought them into this world. I have never seen a cat move so fast. Fierce and feral, she defended her place at the bowl. It was survival distilled into pure instinct, and I admired her for it.

She’s taught them how to live on the streets. I only wish she could teach me how to stop caring.

Every bowl I fill brings both joy and guilt. My heart lifts when I see their little faces, alive and well. But with every morsel, I feel the weight of responsibility pressing harder. How long can I keep this up? What happens the day I can no longer afford to keep feeding them? My heart breaks at the thought.

They come whether food is out or not now, three little silhouettes against the porch light, waiting, barely enough strength to meow. Their cries cut through me. I look into their eyes seeing a need I can no longer fully meet.

And so, I give in. Every time.

They win.

The cycle continues.

Will Mama Cat be my savior?

Will she tire of them muscling in on her “good thing,” sending them off to fend for themselves? Or will she keep showing up with her brood in tow, their tiny mouths depending on me like clockwork?

 How long before my cupboards run bare, before Juno’s bowl holds just enough for her and nothing left for the rest?

What the future holds I can’t answer, but the ache in my chest is undeniably raw and heavy, like the three little bellies that rumble louder with each passing morning. Their cries slice through the morning’s quiet like tiny desperate pleas. Their eyes, hungry and wide, find me every time I step outside. “Please,” they seem to say, “Please, “Just one more meal.” And every time, I die a little more inside.

I have tried not filling the empty bowls, telling myself they will move on, that nature will take its course. For a few minutes, I hold my ground. But then it begins, their cries rise and fall in near-perfect harmony, haunting as their hunger echoes against the porch walls. The sound overlaps in a desperate chorus penetrating my brain, clawing at my heart. The melodic cry of the trio shatters every bit of resolve I have managed to build. It doesn’t just break me; it hollows me out.

I remember what it felt like to be that hungry, to live in that kind of desperation. To not know where I would sleep, when, or even if, my next meal would come. To wake with a hollow gnawing deep within my soul and wonder if today would be my last. I can’t look at their precious faces without feeling that old ache stir inside me, fierce and unrelenting.

I don’t have much. But if it comes down to it, if I have to go hungry so Juno and those fragile, helpless babies can live another day, I will. They may never cross the threshold into the house, but they have crossed into my heart. And that means, for better or worse, they are mine now.