Taylor Walker

Pitch-Black; Pitch-Black

When I was a young girl, around the age of seven, I lived in a neighborhood on the edge of a rundown park where people would regularly abandon their cats. The string of slurs I would use to describe these people would not be suitable for the broad audience I am hoping will read this story, so I will leave it at this: I hated those people and I did everything I could do, as a young child, to stop them. I told my parents, I told my friends, I told my teachers- I sat on a bench nearby every free minute I had to dissuade people from dropping their pets off, to no avail. Every week or two there would be a new cat, scared and alone, cowering under a bush or tree. Some were dropped in boxes, and would stay near the rotting cardboard that, to them, was their last glimpse of home. I wanted to pat their heads and scratch their chins, to give them the love they deserved, but I could never get close. To be treated so cruelly and to still be able to trust a person after that, would be remarkable, so I understood why they ran from me.