A woman brought a frail, red kitten into the vet clinic where I worked—matted fur, infected eyes, barely standing. The diagnosis was grim, and she chose to put him down. We carried him to the back room for his final moments, but then my colleague hesitated. “I don’t want to do it. Let’s see what we can do.” Something in the kitten’s eyes told me he wasn’t ready to give up. So, we cleaned him up, treated him, and placed him in a tiny cage with food and water. We didn’t know what the future held for him, but we gave him a chance.

Days passed, and the kitten—whom we nicknamed Microbug, then properly named Shaman—started eating, moving, and winning hearts. He had ataxia, a neurological disorder that affected his coordination, leaving him wobbly and unable to meow or jump. Despite his struggles, he radiated joy, making staff, clients, and even patients smile. But after six months, the clinic’s management wanted him gone. My options? Find him a home or take him myself. I didn’t hesitate. I adopted him, even though my life was already complicated with an old, moody cat and housing troubles.

A year and a half later, an MRI revealed an old fracture in his cervical vertebra. Tomorrow, we see a neurosurgeon. But no matter what happens, Shaman is mine—completely and unquestionably. He softened my heart in a way no one else ever has. I’ve never spoiled animals, but this little fighter changed me. He doesn’t see obstacles, only goals. He stumbles, falls, gets hurt—but always gets back up. And because of him, I do too.