Santos

It was too late. There was nothing he could do for the mother cat and her other babies. So he picked up the tiny kitten—the sole survivor of the whole family—and ordered their bone-thin and numb-looking local interpreter to take them to a vet ASAP. He had no idea if they had vets for small animals here. But it had been a beautiful, modern and prosperous city not that long ago, he'd once been told. The pride and joy of this far away country. A beautiful oasis in the desert. Though it was nothing but a sad pile of bombed debris now, a living proof of the cruelty of war. There must be something left. Firmly he told himself and started to pray. He was never a good Catholic. He hadn't prayed or been in the church in years. And right now he was frantically praying to God, to the Buddha, and to Allah. For this fragile little cat. For all the exhausted and sad local people who stared at the world with emotionless empty eyes. Their tears had run dry, he knew that for a fact. And they were not complaining. They had learned to accept whatever Fate dropped onto their heads with submissive resignation. But he, on the other hand, hadn't, and didn't plan to. There was always hope. He refused to give up without putting up a fight. He had always been a stubborn fighter and hopeless optimist ever since he was a child.

But the little kitten didn't make it.

He—or she—died in his arms on the way to a vet clinic. And he cried. Without making a sound. He had never cried so hard in his life. He felt like everything he'd ever believed in had ceased to exist in a blink of an eye. Their cars stopped. Someone opened the door and said something. He paid no attention. He just broke down and cried. He saw the beautiful eyes of the mother cat. He saw the tiny kittens. He saw the big brownish dog. He saw the goats. He saw the boy and the girls. He saw the old couple. And they were all dead. Dead. Dead. Just like the hundreds and hundreds of people and animals he'd seen along the road. Someone took the kitten from his trembling hands. Someone hugged him and patted him on the back. Someone buried the kitten. Someone said a prayer. No one said a word to him. They remain friends after leaving the Army. He was not the first one who fell apart. And he was not even a cat person at that time.

A couple years later, he killed an asshole to save another kitten. On another beautiful summer day. In his own country. Once again the mom cat and her other babies didn't make it. But the tiny, bone-thin kitten survives.

Lester Santos opens his eyes and gently wraps his arms around his snoring cat. He wants to cry. He wants to laugh. He has thought love is the answer for everything. But his wife, the woman he loves with all his life, has chosen to leave him. And even though she loves him truly and deeply, she's not coming back. But at least he has the sole custody of his child, his Jalapeño, his Super Cat...