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On my way to the stop, I came across a tiny, striped kitten. It sat watching me attentively by the shade of a parked car. When I stopped to look at it, it scampered over and tried to play with my right boot. Like all cats, they do that thing where they rub the side of their bodies against your leg, except he was new at this, and managed only to lean his head across my ankle. I knelt down to pet it and he rolled over on his back the way my dogs do, all the while swatting playfully at me with his paws. I scratched his head gently and, with his face smiling in the sun, it struck me that his immediate trust was the most touching of things adorable.
He had no collar but I figured it belonged to one of the residents in the area. Once, I had seen a cat by my place and went through great pains of finding its owner; the owner wasn't at all pleased that I had hunted her down. I guess cat owners are different than dog owners.
I walked from the kitten a little sad to leave him with his vulnerable paws in mid-air, but reaffirmed in the beauty of life, the innocence of animals, and God's curious majesty in the tiniest of creatures.
On the train, a lady walked in with a muzzled lap-dog, with the face of a Jack Russell, but larger ears that jutted straight out, sideways from the head. His simple joys put me in a better mood.
There's something so innately evil about humans and our ability to manipulate and scheme, our cabalistic gestures and weary distrust of others. As much as words like "animalistic" and "brute" have negative connotations, ones of carnage and crass indifferences, I see a great deal to learn from animals. To be "human" suddenly rings hollow in its virtue.
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