"Eyeless" Cat.

March 12, 2025- The early morning light spilled across the asphalt as Mariana Serrano and I made our way to the gym, discussing our planned workout.

We were chatting about nothing in particular when Mariana suddenly gripped my arm, her gaze fixed on something in the street.

"Look," she said, pointing toward the intersection.

There, weaving precariously between cars, was an orange cat. Or rather, the cars were weaving around him—drivers swerving, some honking, as the animal wandered with terrified disorientation through the busy thoroughfare. My heart leapt into my throat as a sedan barely missed him by inches.

"We have to do something," Mariana said, already moving toward the street.

We exchanged a quick glance that contained a shared understanding: yes, we were about to become those people—the ones who stop traffic and risk their own safety for a stray animal. The ones some might call foolish, but who can't bear to simply drive past suffering when they see it.

"He can't see," I realized aloud, watching how the cat moved—tentative yet erratic, responding to sounds but not to our visual presence.

Now we were truly committed. Our gym plans forgotten, we focused entirely on saving this sightless wanderer from the certainty of oncoming traffic.

"I have some sweatshirts in my bag," Mariana said, already rummaging through her gym duffel.

We transformed into amateur animal rescuers, adopting what we imagined were ninja-like movements—slow, deliberate steps, communicating with hand signals and whispers as we circled the disoriented cat. Mariana held a sweatshirt outstretched between her hands like a net. I approached from the opposite direction, trying to guide him toward her.

The cat sensed our presence and turned sharply, but his blindness worked in our favor for once. Mariana was able to throw her sweatshirt on top of the cat well enough to slow him down. I swooped down, enveloping him in the soft fabric before he could dart away again. There was a moment of struggle—claws, a muffled hiss—and then, surprisingly, surrender.

We worked quickly to swaddle him more securely, wrapping him like a feline burrito to prevent escape or injury—to him or to us.

At the veterinary clinic, the staff received him with professional kindness and warmth. The vet would later tell us that his eyes are nonfunctional, he is anemic, and fighting an infection.

"Does he have a name?" the receptionist asked as she prepared the intake forms.

We hadn't thought about it until that moment. Names matter. They transform a chance encounter into a relationship, a stray into a being with identity and dignity.

"Claudio Santiago," I said, the name appearing in my mind without premeditation or reason. Mariana nodded in agreement, though later we would laugh about our inability to explain why this particular name seemed so fitting for an orange blind cat rescued from traffic.

That evening, I sent messages to friends and family, asking for prayers or positive thoughts for Claudio Santiago. I found myself remembering stories of Jesus healing the blind—if divine intervention could restore sight to men, surely a cat would require even less of a miracle. The thought wasn't theological so much as hopeful, a reaching for any power that might bend the world toward kindness.

Claudio Santiago, named on a whim and rescued on impulse, reminds me that sometimes the most important journeys begin with simply paying attention to what crosses our path, and being willing to be interrupted by compassion.

[if you are inspired to help with his costs please see ways to donate below. You're welcome to call the vet directly, as well. 🥰 Thank you]