29/01/2026
Ozzy is safe here at Rainbow Bridge but wanted me to share his story to raise awareness of all the lost, stray, abandoned & unwanted kittehs out there. Keep a tissue handy frens……###🐾💞🌈🪽
𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐛𝐲𝐞, 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞🌈
Yeah… this isn’t how I imagined it either, but life doesn’t really ask for permission. Sometimes it just taps you on the shoulder and says, it’s time.
Ozzy here 🦇
And I want you to know something right away — I left this world loved, unconditionally.
I was somewhere between sixteen and “old enough to have seen too much.”
Most of my life was hard. Not dramatic-hard, just quietly miserable.
Bad food. Hunger. Fleas. Dehydration. Long days and longer nights.
If I was loved once, I can’t really remember it. It’s all a bit blurry now.
For years, I lived one street up from here, outside a house that never quite felt alive. People came and went. Some left for good.
I stayed.
I sat by that door in rain, wind, heat and sun, looking like I belonged somewhere even though I didn’t. Thin. Scruffy. Tired.
Most people passed by assuming someone else had responsibility for me.
That’s how it usually works — everyone thinks someone else is taking care of it.
Dad passed me too.
Not because he didn’t care — but because he believed what he was told.
“He belongs to that house.”
And when enough people repeat something, even doubts start to quiet down.
But something stayed with him.
A feeling that something wasn’t right.
Then came this summer.
The hottest day of the year. Nearly forty degrees.
I was done. Empty. Dehydrated. Sick.
I lay in the middle of the road, not really hoping anymore — just waiting for it to stop.
And then I heard it.
The car.
The catmobile.
The one every cat in town knows.
Dad stopped. Got out.
We looked at each other — just for a few seconds, but it felt like a lifetime.
And he said,
“Right. You’re coming with me.”
Front seat.
Still the proudest moment of my life.
From that moment on, everything changed.
Hospitals. Tests. Care.
Years of bad food had damaged my intestines. I was basically a frame with a coat. But I was safe. Warm. Finally seen.
Me and dad… we found each other.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just deeply.
At night, I climbed into his bed, under the duvet, tucked under his chin, holding his arm with both paws like I might float away if I let go.
Oopsy slept below me.
That was our place. Every night.
Mornings had a rhythm.
Coffee on.
Ozzy first.
And here’s what I want you to take with you.
When you save an old, battered street cat, something shifts.
Not just in them — in you.
The gratitude comes first.
Then the trust.
And then a kind of love that feels different.
Not better than any other love — just deeper. Quieter. Aware that time matters.
Kittens bring joy and chaos.
Young cats grow with you.
But old cats arrive knowing.
They don’t need convincing.
They don’t need lessons.
They walk in, stretch out on the sofa, and say, this will do — I’m home.
In shelters and on streets, they wait.
Not because they are less lovable — but because their love doesn’t shout.
Their faces tell stories. Their hearts carry weight.
When someone finally chooses them, they give everything back.
Not forever.
But completely.
So yeah… goodbye, everyone.
I was warm.
I was full.
And I was loved.
That was enough. 🐾🖤
Ozzy 🦇
