The first time I saw him, he was curled outside a laundromat with a tiny orange cat asleep on his chest. One ear was missing. His shoes were held together with duct tape.
I brought food from the café where I worked. He always fed her first. “Her name’s Hazel,” he said. “She chose me. That’s all that matters.”
He’d lost his family, his mother, and his home. Shelters wouldn’t take Hazel, so he slept outside. Then one day, they both vanished.
Weeks later, Hazel appeared alone at a bus stop. I took her in and searched for him. Martin, I learned, was in a coma. When he woke, his first word was “Hazel.” She leapt into his arms as if no time had passed.
A charity gave him a pet-friendly studio. Hazel settled in like royalty. Soon after, he found his long-lost niece.
Today, Martin volunteers at the very shelter that once turned them away — a shelter that now welcomes pets because of him. Hazel still rules his world, and he still chooses her, every day.
