It’s Day 6 since we brought Whiskers home after finding her limping by the roadside. Her back leg was swollen, likely from a fall or a hit, and her fur was dirty and matted. At first, she wouldn’t let us touch her without a low growl and a warning glance, but now, she lets me stroke her head while I change her bandage.
Every morning, we follow the same routine. I wash my hands, lay out her medicine, gauze, and antiseptic, and gently talk to her. She doesn’t understand the words, but I think she senses the care. Her leg still looks tender, but the swelling has gone down a bit, and the wound is no longer seeping. That’s progress.
We’ve been giving her pain medicine as prescribed by the vet, hiding it in soft tuna to make it easier. She’s eating more now, even purring softly when she sees me coming with breakfast. That’s new—she didn’t purr at all until yesterday.
The hardest part has been keeping her calm. She’s feisty, always trying to sneak out of her soft recovery space by the window. But today, for the first time, she seemed content to nap there, soaking in the sun.
I’ve been keeping a journal, noting everything—how much she eats, how she moves, how she reacts to touch. The vet said home treatment would take time, especially with a frightened stray, but we’re getting there. Slowly. Gently.
Tonight, when I sat next to her to read aloud, something beautiful happened. She curled up next to my leg and fell asleep. No tension, no fear—just trust.
Day 6 might not sound like a big milestone, but to us, it is.
Each day brings healing—not just for Whiskers, but for me too. Helping her has reminded me that even small acts of kindness, repeated with patience, can lead to something quietly extraordinary.
