In the bitter cold of a quiet morning, a heartbreaking discovery was made—a stray cat, nearly lifeless, lay motionless in a garbage bin. Her frail body was hidden beneath layers of discarded foam, her eyes dulled by exhaustion, and her spirit on the brink of surrender. She didn’t cry. She didn’t move. It was as if she had accepted that her final moments would be spent in silence, buried in filth and forgotten by the world.
When the call for help came in, I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed my rescue kit and rushed out. What I saw shattered me: this tiny creature, her back glued to a cruel trap meant for pests, her fur matted with debris, her limbs trembling from the cold. As I carefully removed the foam covering her, something incredible happened—she let out a cry. A desperate, raw cry that said she still wanted to live.
The glue had bound her so tightly that even lifting her required bringing the entire trap along. I gently wrapped her in a pad and carried her out of the bin. For the first time, she realized she was no longer alone. Her cries didn’t stop. She was scared, in pain, and freezing, but somewhere deep inside, she must have felt the flicker of hope returning.
At the hospital, I explained everything to the vet. Her body was cold and stiff. Her belly was swollen—not from food, but from days of being unable to relieve herself. She had likely been trapped for days, starving, cold, and completely helpless. The vet and I worked together to gently apply vegetable oil to her fur to loosen the glue. We found a sunny spot to treat her, and while we worked, I noticed tears forming in her eyes. I wiped them away with a tissue, whispering soft reassurances.
As the glue slowly came off, the full extent of her injuries was revealed: her spine was deformed, her bones protruded, and her internal organs were under stress. She had eaten whatever scraps of garbage she could find, and her stomach had turned toxic. But despite it all, she didn’t resist. She didn’t scratch or bite. She simply laid there, trusting us. Perhaps she knew we were trying to help.
We named her Banban—a tribute to the piece of cardboard she was glued to for so long. After eating a little and being bathed in warm water, she slowly drifted off to sleep. It was the first peaceful moment she’d had in what was likely a nightmare of endless suffering.
A week passed, and I returned to see her. The transformation was incredible. Banban had gained weight, her eyes were clearer, and though she still walked with a slight limp, she moved on her own. The vet said her digestive issues were improving, and her mental state was stabilizing. Yet, when I approached her, she backed away—fear still lingered in her gentle eyes. Trust, once broken, takes time to rebuild.
But I believe in her. I believe that Banban, the cat who refused to give up even when life had all but abandoned her, will one day learn to love again. And I’ll be right here, patiently waiting, reminding her that not all hands hurt, and not all humans walk away.