This Halloween makes three years at the animal shelter. Three years of watching little kids and new couples and old ladies come in, scooping up and cooing at all the other cats. Three years of sitting at the front of my cage, keeping my sleek black fur perfectly groomed and looking as likeable as can be, only to watch them walk straight past my cage.

When I was little, people at least used to pause. I quickly learned to love the fingers sticking through the bars of my cage and scratching my fur. But they always moved on, going to the orange and white and brown-speckled cats. As I got older, they stopped less and less, going straight for the squealing, mewing kittens that they could still fit in the palm of their hands.

So I sat there. For three years, as I grew bigger and my cage stayed the same size and the same dry kibble got thrown through the bars every evening.

And then they brought him in. That was the day it all changed. Not that it was his fault. He just reminded them that I was still there – the only other black cat at the shelter. And once they remembered I was there, it was all over for me.

He came in scraggled, thin, and matted, with wide, bulging eyes and bones poking out where fur should have been. He got put in the cage next to mine, but he just spent all day huddled in the corner, shivering and crying out whenever someone passed by. I heard the human keepers talking about where he’d been found – in a closed box floating down a river. There had been four other kittens in the box, but they’d all drowned. This one had been the only one left alive when it washed up on the bank.

“Damn superstitions,” one of the humans says. “Black cats ain’t done nothing to us.”

“Still creepy, though,” the other human says. “Look at those eyes. My dad used to say those eyes go straight to Satan.”

“Your dad spent the last ten years of his life in the nuthouse. And that don’t make no sense anyhow.”

“Whatever. We gotta take ‘em out anyway. That one’s not making it to next week and that other one’s been here three years. He’s hit the limit, rules are we can’t keep him no more.”

“Poor guy.”

As I’m trying to figure out what they’re talking about, one of the humans unlatches my cage and reaches in. I press myself against the big wall, but there’s not much room in the tiny cage to run. The human wraps its fingers around my belly and lifts me out of my cage, and then I watch as the other human pulls the scrawny kitten from his cage. They carry us through aisles of barking dogs and mewling cats, but they ignore them.

We end up in a room with a sharp smell that hurts my nose. They slide me into another cage and both humans turn to focus on the kitten. I watch as they pull out a long sharp object filled with a gross-smelling liquid and hold the kitten down on the table. He makes feeble attempts to struggle, but they are much stronger than him.

As they insert the sharp stick into his neck, I watch as he slowly stops moving. His eyes close and I hear his rapid heart beat slow, slow more, and then finally stop.

The humans turn to me then, but I won’t make it easy for them. As soon as they open the cage, I leap out. Their hands grab at me but my fur is sleek and I slide through their fingers. They left the door open when they brought us in, and now I run back out through it. I run down the aisles, past the cats and dogs, and even some other humans that seem too surprised to try and catch me.

I had sat at the front of the shelter for three years, and for three years I had watched them open the window every morning so the pitiful sounds of the animals inside would draw in humans from the outside. Now, I fly through that open window like I have feathers instead of fur. I’ve seen the birds perching by the window over the years and now I imagine my own pair of great big wings stretching behind me, carrying me far, far away from the shelter.

My paws touch the rough ground and I start running, weaving between humans’ legs. Smells, sights, and sounds flood my senses, and suddenly, the flying, free feeling vanishes. I can feel my heartbeat racing and I realize I’m no longer running towards freedom, but away from the whole new big world crushing in around me.

Then, I’m flying again, but I don’t have wings this time. The world spins around me – or maybe it’s me that’s spinning.

And then I hit the ground.

And then there’s nothing.

Or, no. Not nothing.

Something.

Big white hands lifting me into the air. A white face with hollow eyes and a dark robe covering where hair should be.

“Hello there,” it says. “Who are you?”

I watch it, and it watches me back. It’s studying me, twisting me around and looking me over. It pokes my belly and I squirm, scratching at it with my claws.

“You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?” It says. It tickles my belly with its long, thin fingers. I swipe at it again, but it just laughs. “You’re not going to hurt me, little one, Just like I’m not going to hurt you.” It lowers me down to the ground and moves to the side.

Bright colorful lights fill my vision. Large objects are strawn across the road and humans run around, some yelling, some crying.

Fabric rustles as it crouches next to me. “It’s called a car accident, little one. Those are humans. They drive their silly little cars around all day, and sometimes they forget how dangerous they are.”

I look up at it, and suddenly its hollow, white face doesn’t seem so scary anymore.

“They killed you, little one,” it says. It puts a hand on my head and rubs the sensitive spot right between my ears. I nuzzle into its touch, enjoying the feel of it. It’s been a long time since I’ve been pet like this. Then, its hand pulls away.

“You weren’t the only casualty, little one,” it says, and now it sounds especially sad. It turns my head back toward the “car accident”. A human is walking towards us, which is odd because the other humans don’t seem to be able to see us.

As the human gets closer, I realize she is a little girl. She approaches us and it holds out a hand to her. She shrinks away, looking back over her shoulder at the lights and voices.

“Come, young one,” it says, its hand still extended. She shakes her head, sticking out her bottom lip in a pout.

“Daddy says not to talk to strangers,” she says quietly. I can feel the fear radiating from her. I can sense how much she wants her mother and father, though I’m not sure what has happened to them. Instead, I act as if on instinct, pushing past its black cloak and weaving between her legs, purring as loudly as I can.

It takes a moment, but she slowly crouches down and runs a cautious hand over my back. I purr even louder, pushing my head against her palm. Then, the most wonderful sound in the world. The little girl begins to giggle as she runs her hands over my head, my back, even my belly, which I force myself to tolerate for her sake. She sits on the ground next to me and I hop into her lap. “Kitty, kitty, kitty,” she murmurs as she pets me.

This must be the best feeling in the world, I think to myself. Sitting in the lap of someone who is petting you with no intention of ever stopping. She even gets to that one spot behind my ear that I can never quite reach on my own.

After a couple minutes, it clears its throat and I know it’s time to go. I step out of the girl’s lap and she stands, following me without a trace of fear. When we reach it, it once again extends its hand. She looks nervous for a second, but I butt my head gently against the back of her legs, pushing her toward it. She looks down at me and I continue pushing against her legs. When she finally takes its hand, she has a smile on her face.

It crouches down and I jump onto its free arm. It curls me against its chest and, together, we move on.

Once the girl is settled, it returns to my side. We sit at the top of a hill overlooking what I have decided I will call the Afterward Place. I can hear laughter and children’s voices running around and calling for each other and I know the girl will be all right here. 

“Thank you for helping me,” it says. “I have the hardest time with the young ones. At least the adults have an idea of what is happening. But the little ones…”

I’m not sure what it’s talking about, but it calls me ‘little one’ sometimes, so I crawl into its lap just in case.

It chuckles, a low, soft sound. I feel its long, thin fingers scratch down my back and I lay down, making myself comfortable.

“I’m not supposed to keep you, you know. There’s a heaven even for cats. I’m supposed to take you there and you can chase squirrels and birds all day and eat as much as you could ever want. Does that sound nice to you?”

I’m still not sure what it’s saying, but its cloak is warm and the hill is on the colder side so I burrow deeper into the black fabric.

“It’s like you’re made from the same cloth,” it says, tilting its head to see me in the expanse of fabric. “A perfect match.” It lifts me up and holds me at face-level. “And anyway, who would have to know? This job gets so lonely, I wouldn’t mind having a friend.” It tickles me under the chin. “Do you want to come with me? Help me guide over those whose time is up? Would that make you happy, little one?”

I purr at my name. I’m not sure what it means by ‘those whose time is up’, but I know it is offering me to stay, and that is good enough for me.

“Well,” it says. “If you’re going to help me, you’re going to need a name. I can’t keep calling you ‘little one’. What do you think of Rune? A protector for all those you meet?”

I swat at the edge of its hood as it flickers in the slight breeze. I am quickly growing bored. I want it to take us on another trip and introduce me to new people, but it is still gazing at me with its eyeless stare.

I begin to squirm, wriggling my body until it finally puts me down.

“Well, Rune. I suppose we should get on with the night. There are many more people to help.” 

As it scoops me into its arms and I burrow tightly against its chest, all I can think is how glad I am that I escaped from the shelter at the exact moment I had. If I hadn’t jumped through that window and startled those humans and gotten hit by that car, I’d never have made it here.

I’d never have made it home.