My Story with Little Black
My story with Little Black began when I had just arrived in Singapore. Each afternoon, on my way home from school, I would cut through the garden and narrow paths beneath the HDB blocks. There, I often came across the community cats. They were not strays, but rather companions nurtured by kind-hearted residents. Bowls of food, fresh water, and even makeshift shelters were prepared for them with quiet devotion. Over time, I came to recognize every cat that roamed the neighborhood.
Little Black was the one who stole my heart. Small and slender, cloaked in fur as dark as midnight, she lived a life of quiet independence. Unlike most cats who relied entirely on human kindness, she also hunted mice—brave, fierce, and free in her own way. Each day after school, I would stop by her usual corner, pour food into her dish, and refill her water, just as the other caretakers did.
One afternoon, an elderly uncle told me Little Black had been injured in a fight with a house cat. Everyone was looking for her, worried she might be badly hurt. I searched the garden and stairwells until dusk, but she was nowhere to be found.
That evening, my mother returned from a business trip to Germany, and our family sat down to a warm, plentiful dinner. Yet I could hardly eat. My mind was elsewhere, imagining Little Black’s fragile body, wondering if she was lying hurt in the dark. My mother noticed the cloud over me. Smiling gently, she claimed she was too jet-lagged to sleep and asked me to join her for a walk. When I confessed what troubled me, she grew serious. “Then let’s go,” she said. “Let’s find her. Otherwise neither of us will rest.”
It was nearly midnight when we slipped out. I ran to the carpark where Little Black often prowled, but she wasn’t there. Instead, I saw Old White and Chubby Orange, whom I proudly introduced to my mother. We checked the construction site, her usual shelter, every corner of the garden—but still no sign of her. My heart grew heavier with each step.
After half an hour, despair crept in. Tears threatened to spill. “I just hope her injuries aren’t too grave,” I whispered. “Please, not fatal.”
And then—something stirred in the shadows. Across the grass, a faint pair of eyes glimmered like distant stars. A small black figure lifted her head. My mother and I rushed forward. Little Black rose weakly, and as I reached her, she pressed against my legs and licked them, as though telling me of her battle. I bent down, gently examining her paw. The wound seemed shallow—painful, but not life-threatening. Relief washed over me like a tide.
I sprinted to fetch food and water. After hiding all afternoon, she must have been starving. She ate eagerly, then curled up in the grass, refusing to return to her little shelter, but finally at peace. How I longed to carry her home. But our lease forbade pets, and rules, unlike wishes, cannot be bent.
When she had eaten her fill, my mother and I said goodnight. On the way home, my thoughts wandered restlessly. What if I could write a song for every community cat? What if each melody, paired with their images, could bring joy to cat lovers and strangers alike? Perhaps people might donate a little, and together those small offerings could help when a cat needed medical care—funding the nearest clinic, calling on a doctor’s hands.
That night, as the city slept, a quiet dream began to take root in my heart.
Take action.
