At the mental health center where I work, we have always taken care of the area’s stray cats.
Birba had been around for a few years.
A few minutes ago, a boy walked in — one of those boys you see in the street, like so many in our city’s Sanità neighborhood. He looked upset.
“Dottoré, they have just run over the red cat outside. She didn’t make it. What can we do to give her a proper burial?”
A proper burial. A display of pity towards an animal by someone you just don’t expect.
In these dark days, there’s still a glimmer of hope.
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