When I first heard the faint, desperate cries coming from the trash bin behind the apartment building, I thought it was just a hungry stray looking for scraps. But as I got closer, the sound grew sharper—panicked, helpless. I lifted the lid, and my heart dropped. Inside, a tiny cat lay completely stuck on a large glue trap, unable to move even an inch. Her fur was matted, her eyes wide with fear, and she trembled with every breath.
It was clear someone had abandoned her there.
Slowly, I lifted both the cat and the trap out of the bin. She didn’t fight—she was too tired. I wrapped her in a soft towel and hurried home, knowing the only way to free her safely was patience and oil. I prepared warm olive oil and gently began to dab it onto the sticky surface. The glue softened, but the process was painfully slow. Each small section of fur freed felt like a tiny victory.
The first cleaning took nearly an hour, but she was still partly stuck. She tried to stand, her little legs wobbling, but she collapsed into my hands. So I continued, warming more oil, speaking softly to her so she wouldn’t panic.
The second cleaning went smoother. The fear in her eyes slowly faded, replaced by fragile trust. She even let out a soft purr—weak, but full of hope.
By the third cleaning, most of the glue was gone. Her fur was oily and messy, but she was finally free. She walked a few steps on her own, then turned back toward me as if to say thank you. I couldn’t resist— I scooped her into my arms, relieved and proud of her courage.
That night, I set up a warm bed for her, fed her gently, and watched as she curled up peacefully for the first time. She had survived abandonment, fear, and pain—but now, she was safe. And from that moment on, she was no longer just a cat from a trash bin. She was family.
