There Are Angels On Earth

The other day when Charlie and I were at the vet’s office they had a tiny kitten there, no more than 3-4 weeks old, that they were trying to keep alive.

I watched Hope as she urged it to take milk from a dropper. Hope is Christie’s daughter. Christie is who accompanied Dr. Poteet here to my apartment to give Abi the shot the day she died.

It was Christie who opened my patio door not long after Abi took her last breath. I had rushed outside with Charlie in my arms. She leaned outside to tell me they were leaving.

What she didn’t say was: We’re taking Abi’s body to be cremated now.

Misty and Eunice also work at the clinic with Dr. Poteet.

And it is Mary who thankfully understands the reactions of someone with Asperger’s. And who calms and comforts me when I am upset and a non-stop whirlwind of repetitive motion.

The kitten had yet to make a sound, Hope told me.

It’s siblings had already died. They were found and brought to the clinic, but they were unable to save all but this tiny ball of fur.

Its eyes were the deep grayish blue the sky gets just before a storm. Its body was so small it fit easily into Hope’s cupped hand. When a heart is beating with the softest fluttering of a bird’s wings, every minute counts.

It would only take one try at the dropper, then it turned its head away, milk hovering on the fur beneath its mouth. Hope tried to get it to eat a bit of soft canned food. It nibbled with its pink tongue once and was done.

I watched her smile as she kissed the kitten on its button of a nose, and then take it back to the warm pad that sustains it.

And in so doing she and everyone else there prove that not all of this world is a cruel cold place where kittens are left to die.

There are people who rush toward the next big raise, the bigger promotion. The fancier car. The house with all the bells and whistles.

And then there are angels on earth for whom money is not as important as saving tiny kittens and caring for sick animals.

The vet’s office hasn’t changed a bit since I first began taking Abi and Charlie there seven years ago.

Paper notices about lost dogs dot the old-fashioned brown paneling that has seen better days.

The chairs have orange cushions that never seem to fit.

There are two small rooms where the vet sees his patients. The cabinets are dinged up from constant use, and one of the tables is held up with hope and maybe a prayer.

There is nothing in that office that suggests money is streaming in beyond what is necessary to keep them going.

Dr. Poteet is 75 years old and working long days and weekends with seldom a break.

Louis Armstrong used to sing a song that suddenly and inexplicably comes to mind…

“And I say to myself, what a wonderful world.”