The Butterfly Vote : Chapter 2

A Trembling Ball of Fur

🦋

They say catching a glimpse of a purple shooting star is a rare gift. Well, like a wondrous purple shooting star streaking across the night sky, Butterfly fluttered into my life, just as unexpectedly. It happened on the second Saturday of November, early that morning, dark and cold. I was 14 at the time, living with my family in a slowly developing suburb that lay like a peaceful haven, some twenty miles north of bustling downtown Atlanta. 

Our neck of the woods was especially tranquil, tucked among tall loblolly pines. These trees were so lofty that, to my then youthfully whimsical mind, they seemed engaged in a spirited race, each striving to be the first to touch the radiant sun that leisurely swam across the ocean-blue Georgia sky. The pines also gave our area a serene kind of beauty, a pleasant departure from the more conventional landscapes typical of many American suburbs.

Even the houses scattered along the tree-lined streets weren’t your average, cookie-cutter suburb homes, each one distinct. Our place was a simple two-story brown house, set apart by its low, cross-hipped roof and a long horizontal exterior wall. The top part of the wall was clad neatly in spruce wood siding, while the bottom displayed, in contrast, an untidy mélange of concrete and bricks. Though many of the neighboring houses were larger and more architecturally pleasing, none could boast a yard as vast as ours. The front stretched to the size of an NBA court, while the back, though smaller, spanned half as much. The whole lot sat snugly on the right side of a quiet T-intersection, all safe and warm.

🦋

That fateful predawn morning in November, I was fast asleep upstairs in our cozy brown home when a peculiar mewling sound somehow stirred me awake, frustratingly ahead of my alarm’s scheduled time. It was soft but primal, coming from somewhere outside. My eyes, blurry with unfinished sleep, drifted to the window, yet all that met my stare was the night’s darkness reflected in the glass panes.

Curious to find out who was making such a sound at this ungodly hour, I stumbled out of my toasty bed and wrapped the comforter around me like a cloak before staggering across the hardwood floor to the window. With a grunt, I lifted the heavy bottom sash halfway up and poked my head out. The air held a nip that made me shiver.  

The world outside the window was just as dark as it appeared from inside. It would’ve been nice to have the moon casting its luminous gaze upon the source of the mysterious sound lurking outside, but no such luck. Still, I squinted to peer into the specific area from where I suspected the sound had come. Not a thing came into view, save for the faint outlines of treetops rearing against the raven sky. 

Just as I was about to go back to bed, the sound returned, now seeming to be begging for a sympathetic ear. It pleaded for me to listen, to care, to do something. It beckoned me to pluck up my courage to come outside. Overpowered by its insistent plea, with a little nudge from my own curiosity, I sluggishly buttoned up my beige United Colors of Benetton duffle coat, then tiptoed out of the room and along the dim, narrow hallway, trying my best not to wake my parents in the nearby room. As quiet as a mouse, I sneaked down the squeaky stairs to the front door.  

I grabbed the doorknob and, nervously, turned it ever so slowly, just enough to quickly peek out. The search was short-lived. There, on our ‘WELCOME’ doormat, trembling in the icy grip of late autumn’s nighttime, was the mysterious guest that had called me out: a tiny ball of fur. 

Wait, what the…it’s a…kitten! I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. 

What on earth is this little thing doing out here? Did someone leave it at our doorstep?  

With these questions darting through my thoughts, I scanned the uninterrupted darkness surrounding our house, as though the answers might somehow appear out of the black void. 

Well, what are you gonna do now?

I don’t know, but I can’t just leave it here, right? I mean, the night air is mighty chilly for me, so imagine how it must be for this delicate creature.

After a brief moment of debating myself, I concluded that I could not let the poor, frail thing freeze to death outside. I picked up the kitten, no larger than Mom’s coffee mug, with all the care in the world and held it close to my chest so I wouldn’t drop it. 

🦋

Back inside, the bright living room lights revealed in detail its striking features. The kitten had almond-shaped, deep blue eyes, the color like the upper sky at dusk. Its fur was as brilliantly white as the blossoms of Jean’s Appalachian Snow in spring, but with black and orange patches scattered from its head to its tail, like a beginner art student had used its coat as a canvas for an abstract painting.

Upon stealthily returning to my room, I sat down on the bed, still cradling the tiny kitten and feeling as clueless as the kitten looked. After all, I’d never been around a cat before, let alone held one. But I figured the delicate creature might still be cold, so I gently set the kitten down on the floor and used my smallest pair of boxers as a makeshift blanket.  

Also thinking it might be hungry, I once more crept downstairs to the kitchen to fetch the kitten some milk. I filled a soup bowl nearly full with creamy milk, heating it in the microwave for about thirty seconds, and tiptoed back to my room, struggling mightily not to slosh the white liquid on the stairs.

I placed the bowl in front of the kitten. Despite its earnest efforts, the little kitty struggled at first to lap up the milk with its minuscule tongue, as teeny and pink as a pencil eraser. The poor thing was spilling as much milk on the floor and back into the bowl as it got in its mouth.