Kuya Jo used to call her Snow White until later, he was referring to her as Wendy. I, on the other hand, for lack of names to use, call her “Ming-Ming” like how I refer to all the other cats in the neighborhood. We had her by sheer twist of fate. She was outside the gates of our enclave with her mom, awaiting any scrap of a meal that would miraculously land outside the gate as my brother does the duties of feeding our own mini zoo at home: two askals and a half-bulldog half-labrador, a proud cat and the almost-dozen lovebirds. It would have been more exciting if the lab rat was still alive. Imagine what chaos it would be if all of our pets would get loose. My younger cousins would have had a live educational show of how the food web works.

It started when the very papampam half-breed barked like crazy as she jumped up and down on her leash. We didn’t know what it was she wanted so bad outside because the sun had since bid goodbye and the moon had started to shine it’s weak silver of light on Earth. It went on for close to an hour and no amount of pacifying calmed her down. When Kuya Jo went out to smoke, he finally saw her: a tiny living thing clad in nothing but black fur. He was surprised when she did not resist the moment he held her up. The rest as they say, was history.

She’s been with us for close to a month and she never left since that night when my brother fed her with a small amount of human food. You always see her lounging near our toydog-sized askal who didn’t really mind her presence or probably on top or underneath the garden table nearby. It was her home. She willingly became part of our family and wore the gold-colored necklace kuya put on her without resistance. Being the youngest and the newest member of the family, she would always get her dish filled with food first. We’d laugh at how she’d hijack the food dishes of our other pets more than a hundred times her size or how the half-breed would lick her face clean when she passes her by. She was the cutest little charm.

Then one day, my brother asked our househelp if the kitten was already doing good. Puzzled, I went out to look and saw her motionless near one of the window panes. I called her but she didn’t nudge. She was still alive but yes, very weak. When feeding time came, she did not rush to her food dish like she always used to, instead she walked with a very limp frame. That was Saturday evening and by the time I already had to go back to QC on Monday morning, she wasn’t doing any better. The cat poops that littered the area clued me in: she was stricken with diarrhea. Looking at her tiny frame whose bones are starting to jut out of her skin, I prepared myself for the grim possibility that she’s not going to be there when I go back home the next weekend. That was the time when I took out my mobile phone and snapped pictures of her - at least - I told myself, I’d have a remembrance of her when she passes to the other side. The farewell I bid her that morning served dual purpose: a goodbye for the time being and a goodbye for eternity. When I got back to QC, I sent kuya instructions to give her Gatorade or dissolve oral rehydration salts in a glass of water and give her some. I may not really be a vet, but I figured dealing with humans and animals at least used the same principles. I never heard from them again though after kuya told me he would, and each day, I dreaded waking up to a text message telling me that she had already moved on, like that one time when I received a text on how they found one of our dogs dead that morning.

Yesterday, my mom was here in QC to pick up my laundry since I wasn’t going home for the weekend. I waited for her to break the bad news but there wasn’t any until I couldn’t take it any longer and asked. Mom instead, gave me the wonderful news that the little kitten managed to hold on and was now doing better unexpectedly. I finally was able to heave a sigh of relief. Tiny Ming-Ming survived the storm. I guess the pictures would not be her first - and last after all.

She’s so tiny she even wouldn’t fit in baby clothes.