12/27/2025
And this is the life and death struggles that rescuers see and feel as well. That’s why we have too many cats and kittens for one couple and no friends. Just so happens our newest rescue is an orange girl named Pumpkin. Named that because we got her around Halloween.
Every Wednesday at 4 p.m., I help end the lives of animals no one else wants. That’s the part of my job most people don’t see.
But today… today there was an orange cat. And a child’s note taped to his box.
I’m Dr. Grace Miller, a veterinarian at a small, overcrowded county shelter—the kind of place most people drive past unless they’re dropping off something worn out: an old couch, an old habit… an old pet. Around here, love has a waiting room, and budget cuts have a fast lane.
Wednesdays are what we call “making space.” We say “ending suffering.” Words we use to sleep at night after checking a box next to a name that used to purr or wag its tail.
Pumpkin came in Tuesday. A beat-up cardboard box, left outside after hours. When I opened it, my breath caught in the cold. He was curled into the corner—skinny, sick, barely breathing. His cloudy eyes blinked at me like he was apologizing for existing 💔.
Inside the box was a piece of notebook paper in a child’s handwriting:
“His name is Pumpkin. Please love him. Mom can’t keep him anymore.”
The word Mom was written extra dark, like the child pressed with all their might.
We scanned for a chip. Nothing. His chart filled up fast: bad teeth, heart murmur, senior, low adoption chance. By morning, Pumpkin was on the 4 p.m. list.
“You know how it is,” my supervisor said. “Eighteen from a hoarding case. No luxury for long shots.”
But I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Couldn’t stop seeing his eyes, hearing that rusty little meow whenever I passed his kennel. Hopeful. Like he still believed someone was coming.
At 3:55, Pumpkin was on the table. Wrapped in a towel. Watching me as I drew up the syringe.
And then, with one shaky paw, he touched my wrist.
That’s all it took.
In that moment, I remembered my son, Ethan — and his stuffed orange cat he held through chemo. I remembered why I became a vet. Not to clear cages. To save lives.
So I put the syringe down.
“I’m taking him,” I said. “Foster, hospice… whatever. He’s not a number today.”
That night, Pumpkin slept on my couch, curled on a blanket that still smells like the detergent I used when Ethan was alive. When he dreams, his paws twitch like he’s running somewhere better 🧡🐾.
I can’t save them all. I know that. And that’s the part that breaks me.
But tonight, one old soul is safe. Warm. Loved.
And maybe, just maybe, he saved me too.
Because sometimes the life you rescue… ends up rescuing you.
