His eyelids drooped while his wet sandals squeaked after every step, his ruffled hair hops in the cold air, and his sleeves drip his path. This dirty man doesn't seem to care about the world. He walks passed your everyday people you'd find anywhere. They'll stare at him and see a filthy man who doesn't care for himself or the world around him. And they'd be right 9 times out of 10; However, if they were around him not too long ago, they will see a man risking himself- but mainly his clothes- to the muck of a ditch to pull out his feline companions from the gunk they got stuck in and to the algae that lived in the water he used to wash their fur of mud.
He will continue on his way home. He will stop for none besides those lucky folk who only appear 1 time out of 10. He's worked harder today than any other job he's ever had. He's dirtied his clothes and minds no one who points it out to him, but his work hasn't come to an end just yet. He stops where he is and looks off into a dark alleyway. As it is, the alley is gloomy and sits far from the street lamps and cars driving passed. It hoards trash and dirt and smells like rot. Despite that, the man doesn't care, he'll happily open himself to its disgusting embrace because of something else that the alley has recently added to its collection. There waddles a couple of black birds- three of them- who surround a mass smaller than them, but it also doesn't seem mind their company. A car drives behind the man and lights the view in front of him, and something inside him won't let him go home just yet. It asks for a few more minutes of his time. Like that's even a question, for someone like him, he can't just let the mass be because he knows his old friend when given the smallest clue, even though he hasn't seen him in months. The man has worried for his friend even before those weeks without him turned into months, let alone weeks.
The man probably hasn't ran in months, but this seems to be one of those evenings he rarely experiences, so one can call him lucky, even though he absolutely wouldn't label it as such. His movements are quick and waves the winged rats away from the best dinner they've probably been in the presence of, but right now they need to find another meal. This mass in front of the man wasn't for eating. Something so pure to him should never endure the company of those scavengers, living or not.
The man's friend was thinner now and didn't weigh as much as he remembered when he last held him. The orange pattern that decorated his fur was the same, but it also wore the brown of dirt and the red spills left behind by those birds.
"You can't really blame me can you.."
The man had bent down to the dead meat and whispered those words into it. He knows that his friend can't hear him now, but the crying man couldn't care any less. He matted the fur with his tears. He wants his friend to come back. He may have been able to change his friend's fate if he had found him a few days ago, but trying to help him now is just a waste of time. Time better spent relaxing at home with his family. Nevermind this.
"I wish you had found me sooner."
He held his friend's paw and scratched him behind his ear with his other hand. The meat remained motionless, the man thought he heard it purring, but nothing sounded from it. The fur was dusty and the man felt it's bones through its skin.
"Now that you're here, please let me help you one more time."
The man let the mass lay as it was and found a box near the two of them. A bit big, but it will do. The man gently moved his hands under his friend and moved him into the box. He closed the lid and picked it back up and continued on his way down the street.