text: A cat has been born. Its frail cries came from behind the dumpster, only noticeable to those who managed to pierce through the city’s cacophony - so, naturally, no one would ever hear them, for the loud traffic and the small talk of strangers had long become background noise, the sort one’s brain is programmed to ignore as a safety measure to keep one’s sanity intact. People passed by on their way to underpaid office jobs. Street vendors shouted out the price of counterfeit sunglasses. Parents screamed at their disobedient toddlers. Buses honked at cars attempting to cut them off. Businesses went on as usual. This newborn’s whispered pleas didn’t stand a chance, indeed. There wouldn’t be a rescue party. One can only imagine what would happen if someone stumbled upon it. This person would most likely be repulsed by such an ugly creature. Its eyes were still closed. Its short paws could barely reach the ground. Its precarious body was just partially covered by thin fur of uncertain color. Yes, it was ugly. But it was alive - defiantly alive, with no mother around, no blanket to lie on, no notion of warmth, comfort, and nurture. This person might be moved by a sense of pity or compassion, but those feelings would soon turn into something different: admiration. Respect for this poor soul’s struggle to stick around - a pathetic struggle, sure, yet even more heroic for its futility. For this tiny being, the world had been limited to that sidewalk’s rough concrete, to the smell of rotten food and dirty diapers in trash bags, to the menacing sounds of heavy machines and overstressed citizens. Why fight to stay? Why was it so determined to get a shot in life? And, most importantly, how did it know to hope for more? For an act of kindness, for someone to come, for someone to care. This person wouldn’t understand it, but those were the kinds of questions didn’t need an answer to hit deep; they were powerful precisely because they were doomed to remain a mystery. This person would tell all strangers nearby that a cat had been born. A crowd would gather around the dumpster and stare at this ugly form. They, too, would feel repulse, and then pity, and then admiration. They would want others to share the same profound experience. They would stop traffic. Drivers would leave their cars. Commuters, for once, wouldn’t mind being late to work. Tedium, indifference, and rage would become a distant memory, for there was a cat, and it was alive. \* The cat let out its final cry twenty-one minutes before the garbage collectors, who were over an hour behind schedule due to a mechanical problem with their truck, finally got to that dumpster. They were the first to lay eyes on this ugly creature, but it was lifeless now, so all the workers felt was repulse. Maybe some of them could feel a hint of pity on a normal day, if they weren't running late and had a few seconds to spare. But it would be impossible for them - for anyone, really - to reach a state of admiration. The cat couldn't plead anymore. It couldn’t hope for salvation, it couldn't show its instinctive faith in the human spirit. The garbage truck went on its route. Moments later, the police came for the sunglass vendor. A heated discussion followed after the officers decided to confiscate the merchandise. A distracted motorist, entertained by the public commotion, crashed into the bumper of a Minivan. There was shouting, and kids crying, and some more shouting. The noise one grows so accustomed to that nobody can say when a cat has been born.