The homeless man had the right idea when he stuck the little sick kitten in his Money Box. He sat by the stairs down the L, making bank. The kitten mewed and earned the Man’s supper of beer and paper plates.

It reminds me of yesterday, when I – amidst the doing of 12 things at once – my bedroom a proverbial post office of envelopes and hole punches – in a frenzy to get scripts in the mail by the post mark deadline – stopped everything when I heard the sad mew of a little sick titten. It was behind my apartment (which I have no access to) and I could see it through the window – it was crying – it could barely stand up – it was stuck.

I panicked and did panicky things like grab dish towels like the towel would solve it, and run downstairs to try and break down doors, or something. I ended up beating down the door of the neighbor, who hopped the fence and saved the thing. Everything was about this titten. For those moments, This little mewmonster was everything ever. I dreamt of the little titten and I’s life together – and how it would thank me daily. But this titten, left for dead by its mother – was probably not for me, as it would grow up unstable with abandonment issues. It would get tramp stamp tattooes and steal ones from my wallet and would be rebellious, generally. It would skip school and forget my birthday. It would end up like this:

Um. Why does that exist? And why did I find it?

Ten dollars to anyone who can name anything sadder than the tragic mew of a sick babytat – or the image of one with a gun to its gob.