Albert Harris Photography

Albert Harris Photography Marriage Proposal Photographer. Also a Content Creator for Orange County Animal Services.

By now, Wavy has learned not to get his hopes up when footsteps pause outside his kennel.He's been wrong too many times ...
09/01/2026

By now, Wavy has learned not to get his hopes up when footsteps pause outside his kennel.

He's been wrong too many times before.

But today is Day 43, and something has to change.

Wavy is only 3 years old, a sweet tuxedo cat with a gentle heart and soft, knowing eyes. But those eyes have grown tired. Tired of watching strangers glance at him and then walk away. Tired of pressing his face against the metal bars, hoping this time might be different. Tired of a world that moved on without him.

Wavy didn't do anything wrong. He was surrendered because his owner had too many cats and simply became overwhelmed. In one afternoon, he lost his home, his family, and everything familiar. The soft places he used to sleep. The hands that used to pet him. The voice that used to call his name. All of it gone.

Now he sits in a shelter, trying to make sense of a life that no longer makes sense. Cats aren't fans of change, and Wavy is no exception. He's confused. He's stressed. He's heartbroken in a way he can't express. And every day, a little more of his spirit slips away.

It has been 43 days.

43 days of waiting at the Staten Island location. 43 nights of curling up on a shelter blanket, wondering if anyone will ever really see him again. The staff do their best. They try to comfort him, try to remind him he matters. But they can't give him what he really needs a home.

Summer is about to end. The golden warmth of August is fading, and the crisp edge of fall is beginning to creep into New York City. Soon, the seasons will change. The world will keep turning. And Wavy will still be here, waiting in the same small kennel, unless someone finally chooses him.

Today is the day.

Let Day 43 be the day his life begins again. Let it be the day someone walks past his kennel, stops, and doesn't walk away. Let it be the day Wavy learns that hope isn't something he has to be afraid of anymore.

Let's show that New York is still a city full of compassion, second chances, and love.

Wavy has been waiting long enough.

Please share. Please care. Please be the one.

Adopt Wavy today. He is at Animal Care Centers of NYC (ACC)

Some dogs are forgotten in a day. Rocco has been forgotten for two years.Two years. 730 days. 17,520 hours. And not one ...
08/31/2026

Some dogs are forgotten in a day. Rocco has been forgotten for two years.

Two years. 730 days. 17,520 hours. And not one single person has asked to meet him.

Imagine waking up every single morning with hope in your heart, only to go to sleep every night with that hope fading a little more. That has been Rocco's reality for two long years.

And now, he is about to become a senior. He has spent two of his best years waiting. Two years of watching seasons change from a kennel. Two years of holidays without a family. Two years of his life slipping away while the world walked past him.

While he is safe within the walls of the rescue, Rocco is fighting a battle far more painful than cold weather or empty food bowls. He is fighting the crushing weight of being unseen.

The volunteers love him. They see his tail wag when they approach. They feel the weight of his head resting on their lap when they sit with him. They know his gentle soul. But the volunteers cannot give him what he needs most a home.

The public walks past him. They don't stop. They don't ask his name. They don't pick him.

And perhaps the most heartbreaking part? He has done nothing wrong.

Rocco came all the way from Alabama, his history a mystery we will never solve. But we don't need to know his past to see his present. We know he is a good boy because he has lived in a foster home. We know he is gentle because he did beautifully with a child on the autism spectrum. He proved that when he loves, he loves with patience and grace.

Yet, that doesn't seem to matter.

Right now, the city is drowning. The shelters are overflowing, rescues are bursting at the seams, and amidst the noise of a thousand other dogs in need, Rocco has been lost in the shuffle. His sweet, kind soul is being overlooked simply because there are too many others.

Only the volunteers see him. Only the volunteers love him. And as much as they wish they could, they cannot adopt them all.

Yes, Rocco can be selective with other dogs. But is that so hard to understand? After two years of waiting, wouldn't you be a little unsure of others, too? He doesn't need a dog park; he just needs a slow introduction and a patient hand.

But time is a thief, and it is stealing Rocco's spark.

He has already lost two years. Two summers. Two winters. Two birthdays. Two holidays without a family to call his own.

Let's not let him lose another.

Let's not let him watch another season change from behind bars.

Let's not let him spend another holiday waiting for someone who never comes.

He is depending on us. He is depending on you.

Rocco doesn't know how to network himself. He doesn't know how to beg for attention on a screen. He only knows how to sit, wait, and hope that today is the day someone finally chooses him.

The volunteers have done their part. They have kept him safe. They have loved him when no one else would. But they cannot be his forever.

Please, don't let him wait another day. Don't let him become a permanent resident of a temporary place. He has so much love left to give, but he needs a door to open.

He's been forgotten for two years. Let's make sure he's not forgotten for a third.

Let's get Rocco home. He has waited long enough.

You know what to do.

Bibi has been waiting so long, she’s starting to believe the silence is all she’ll ever know.She is five years old. For ...
08/31/2026

Bibi has been waiting so long, she’s starting to believe the silence is all she’ll ever know.

She is five years old. For five years, Bibi has been a ghost moving through a world that never stopped to look at her. We don’t know her story we don’t know if she was born on a cold street corner or if she once knew the warmth of a bed. All we know is that she was handed to a child at a bodega, a fleeting moment of being “chosen,” only to be surrendered to a shelter, another door closed in her face.

That was a long time ago.

And since then, Bibi has waited.

She watches people walk past her cage every single day. She presses her soft, timid face against the bars, hoping, begging for just one person to stop. Just one person to see past the “stray cat” label and see her. But they don’t. They walk by. They always walk by.

She is sweet. She is gentle. She is so painfully shy that her quietness is mistaken for indifference. But if you sit with her, if you are patient, she will slowly creep forward. She will blink her big, hopeful eyes as if to say, “Are you real? Are you staying?” She is not asking for the world. She is not asking for a mansion or a life of luxury. She is asking for a single moment of recognition.

Bibi doesn’t need eight million people to care. She doesn’t need to go viral or be the most popular cat in the room. She only needs one.

One person to see the sadness in her eyes and decide to be the reason it disappears. One person to offer a lap, a soft blanket, a quiet home. One person to finally call her “family.”

The shelter is loud and cold. For a girl as timid as Bibi, it is a terrifying place. She shrinks into the corner, trying to make herself as small as possible, wishing she could disappear. But she can’t. She is still here, waiting for a kindness that never comes.

We have failed her so far. We have let her wait. We have let her watch as other cats find homes, while she is left behind, forgotten. Please, don’t let her be forgotten for another day.

Bibi is not just a number. She is a heart that beats, a soul that feels, and a love that has never been given a chance to bloom.

Please, don’t make her keep waiting. Look into her eyes. See her. Choose her.

Let’s get Bibi home. She is at Puppykittynycity

Seventy-two days at the shelter. 🥺Pear doesn't count them the way we do. He doesn't know it's been over two months, or t...
08/31/2026

Seventy-two days at the shelter. 🥺

Pear doesn't count them the way we do. He doesn't know it's been over two months, or that the calendar has flipped, or that the long, golden days of summer have begun their slow, quiet fade into autumn. He only knows the feeling. It is a heavy, familiar weight that settles in his chest each morning when the shelter lights flicker on and he opens his eyes to the same four walls. The same blanket. The same emptiness.

He was found in a backyard, a ghost in the tall grass, surviving on instinct and luck. Brought here to safety, they said. And it is safe. But safety is not the same as love.

He is three years old, a male tabby whose stripes are like whispers of the wild life he used to live. And in his green eyes, there is a sadness so deep it could swallow you whole if you let it. He has watched the summer bloom and blaze and now begin to dim, and still, he waits. He waits for a glance that lingers. For a hand that doesn't pull away. For a heart that says, him. That one. That's my boy.

But it hasn't come.

We have featured him before. We have shared his face, his story, his quiet, hopeful eyes. We have posted him and pleaded for him and told the world how special he is. And still, he remains. The posts fade. The feeds move on. New faces appear, and Pear is left behind, just another tabby in a city that doesn't slow down.

The volunteers are gentle with him. They know his story. They scratch behind his ears and murmur soft words, and for a few precious minutes, Pear closes his eyes and lets himself pretend. Pretend that this is his person. That this hand belongs to someone who won't leave. But then the volunteer pulls away, the latch on the kennel clicks shut, and Pear is alone again. He doesn't blame them. They are kind. But kindness from a stranger is not a home. It is a bandage on a wound that never fully heals.

He watches the visitors walk by. They coo at the kittens first. The kittens who cry and tumble and beg with every fiber of their tiny bodies. And Pear understands. He was not given the gift of easy trust. His love is not loud. It does not demand. It waits, buried beneath layers of caution and memory, hoping someone will be patient enough to find it.

People see him curled in the corner of his kennel, and they don't see a heart waiting to be unlocked. They see a shy cat. A scared cat. Another tabby. Just another brown cat in a city full of them. So they move on. And Pear lets them go. He has learned not to hope too hard. Hope, he has found, is its own kind of wound.

But here is the truth they don't see: Pear has so much love inside him. It is not the frantic, showy love of a kitten. It is the deep, steady love of a survivor. The kind of love that, once earned, will never waver. He will not be the cat who greets you at the door on day one. He will be the cat who hides under the bed, watching. Waiting. Learning that your footsteps mean safety and your voice mean home. And then, one day, when you least expect it, he will emerge. Slowly. Cautiously. And he will press his small, striped body against your hand, and he will purr for the first time, and it will feel like the sun breaking through a storm.

He just needs someone to give him that chance. Someone in this loud, rushing, unforgiving city who will stop and see him. Not as a project or a problem. But as a promise. A three-year-old soul who has already survived so much, just waiting for the one thing he hasn't found yet.

We have tried to tell the world about him. We have tried to make him seen. But in a city of millions, somehow, he is still invisible.

Seventy-two days.

The summer is slipping away. The nights are growing cooler. And Pear is still there, watching the door, waiting for someone to walk through it and finally, finally, choose him.

Please. Don't make him wait forever. Don't let him be the one who was featured and forgotten. Together, we can get him home. He is at Animal Care Centers of NYC (ACC) Queens location

He doesn't know why the world keeps passing him by.Shrike sits quietly in his kennel while the city rushes past the shel...
08/30/2026

He doesn't know why the world keeps passing him by.

Shrike sits quietly in his kennel while the city rushes past the shelter doors, a blur of footsteps and indifference. He's a tabby with a snow-white chest, a tuxedo of sorts, as if he dressed for an occasion no one ever showed up to. At six years old, he's standing on the delicate threshold between his youth and his senior years, and still, no one has chosen him.

Almost five months. That's how long he's been waiting. One hundred and fifty days of watching people walk past. Of hoping. Of shrinking back when the noise gets too loud.

Before this, Shrike lived in a basement. Not a home just a basement. Surrounded by other cats, yes, but never truly seen. Never held. Never told he mattered. He wasn't socialized. He wasn't cherished. He simply existed in the shadows, learning early that the world doesn't always have room for cats like him.

When he first arrived at the shelter, he made himself small. His shyness was a wall built from years of neglect. But Shrike, despite everything, is brave.

Slowly, quietly, he has begun to unfurl. A chin lifted here. A gentle blink there. The first tentative purr hesitant, as if he wasn't sure he was allowed. He is learning that human hands can be kind. That a soft voice isn't a trick. He is finally, finally opening up, like a flower that bloomed late because no one ever thought to give it light.

And here is the part that breaks our hearts: Shrike is only six years old. He is not old. He is not broken. He has a whole lifetime of love left to give, years stretching out ahead of him filled with sunny windowsills and slow blinks and the quiet comfort of belonging to someone. But New York City, in all its relentless speed, doesn't see him. The city that prides itself on giving everyone a chance somehow keeps overlooking this gentle soul who is asking for so little and offering so much.

He deserves to be seen. He deserves a soft bed and a patient hand and someone who understands that the shy ones, the ones who have to learn to trust, love the deepest.

The city moves fast. Too fast for a cat who is just now learning what safety feels like.

So let's slow it down for him. Let's break through the noise. Let's be the ones who finally notice him, who refuse to let him fade into the background of a thousand other adoption listings. Share his face. Speak his name. Shrike. A songbird. And all he wants is someone to hear his quiet song.

He's been waiting for almost five months. Please don't let him wait any longer.

Together, we can get him the home he has always deserved. He is at Puppykittynycity in NYC!

The mayor wants a cat. 🐈And here’s the thing, NYC’s shelter cats are already waiting.There’s a new campaign from Voters ...
08/30/2026

The mayor wants a cat. 🐈

And here’s the thing, NYC’s shelter cats are already waiting.

There’s a new campaign from Voters For Animal Rights urging Mayor Zohran Mamdani to consider adopting from Animal Care Centers of NYC, our city’s open-admission shelter system.

Sure, one adoption would change one life. We all know that. But could it do more? I think it could.

Imagine the attention a mayoral shelter adoption could bring to the animals sitting inside ACC right now. Not just the cute kittens, the shy seniors, the overlooked adults, the ones who’ve been waiting months for someone to notice them.

People would talk about it. They’d share it. Maybe they’d finally visit the shelter, browse adoptable pets, sign up to foster, or volunteer. Maybe they’d bring home the animal they’ve been thinking about for years.

For animals who spend every single day fighting just to be seen, visibility isn’t a nice-to-have. It’s everything.

This doesn’t have to be political. It can simply be a chance for New York City to send a message:

When you’re ready for a pet, start with the animals already waiting.

And if Mayor Mamdani does choose ACC? Even Curtis Sliwa might have to give him credit for this one. 😼

So I’m curious do you think NYC’s mayor should adopt from Animal Care Centers of NYC (ACC)?

👇 Tell me what you think.
🐾 SHARE this post so more New Yorkers see the campaign.
🏠 ADOPT or FOSTER if you’re able.
📣 And if you know someone looking for a pet, remind them to check their local shelter first.

She is only eight years old, but Pip has already lost everything.For eight years, Pip knew what it meant to be loved. Sh...
08/30/2026

She is only eight years old, but Pip has already lost everything.

For eight years, Pip knew what it meant to be loved. She had a home, a warm lap to curl up in, and a family she trusted with her whole heart. She never imagined a day would come when that world would simply disappear. But life has a way of breaking the sweetest souls, and when her owner could no longer care for her, Pip’s entire world crumbled.

Now, this gentle tabby finds herself in a shelter kennel, surrounded by unfamiliar sounds and the cold echo of a life she doesn’t understand. She is confused. She is grieving. And it shows.

Her eyes those beautiful, soulful eye tell a story she cannot speak. They carry the weight of her heartbreak. They look up at every person who walks by, searching for a familiar face, hoping that maybe, just maybe, this one is here to take her home. But the foot traffic is so quiet there. This isn't a bustling city shelter with hundreds of visitors a day. Pip’s world has shrunk to a small room, and the people who do come in glance at her, see a cat who looks sad, and they walk on.

They don’t see her story. They just see her age.

They see an eight-year-old tabby and think, “I wanted a kitten.” They don’t understand that with age comes experience, and with experience comes a depth of love that a kitten simply cannot yet comprehend. They don’t realize that an older cat already knows how to be a companion how to read your moods, how to sit quietly beside you when you are sad, and how to fill a home with a calm, steady presence. They don't know that cats are loyal, often far beyond what we deserve. Pip has spent eight years learning the rhythms of a home and the heart of a human. She is not a blank slate; she is a masterpiece of devotion waiting to be appreciated.

They don’t know that Pip is gentle with the volunteers, that she leans into their hands for comfort, that she purrs softly when spoken to because she is just so grateful for a moment of kindness. They don’t know that she still has so much love left to give, even though her heart is breaking. They don’t see that behind her sorrow is a well of gratitude waiting to overflow the moment someone finally chooses her.

It has only been a few days, but to Pip, it feels like an eternity. Every day, she waits. Every day, she is passed over. The staff do their best to soothe her, but they can see the light in her eyes dimming. They see a sweet, kind soul who is slowly fading under the weight of being unwanted.

But we can change her story.

Pip is depending on us. She is depending on you.

We need to be her voice. We need to show the world that a sad face is not a lost cause, it is a call for compassion. Pip isn’t broken; she is just waiting for someone to see past her sorrow and recognize the loyal, loving companion she has always been. She is waiting for someone to look at her and understand that her age is not a flaw it is a gift. She is waiting for a hero to say, “You are safe now. You are mine.”

Please, don’t let her wait in silence. Share her face. Share her story. Let the right person see those eyes and realize that while she may be eight, she has a lifetime of love and loyalty left to offer. Let’s find Pip the home she deserves before she gives up hoping altogether.

She is depending on you. You know what to do. Please, help Pip be seen. She is at Bluffton-Wells County Animal Shelter

08/29/2026

Some cats meow for attention. Sebastian has gone silent, because nobody answered the first hundred times.

He is only two years old.

Two years. That's nothing in the span of a lifetime. And yet, he has already learned what it means to lose everything he knew.

He didn't understand why the hands that once held him stopped reaching for him. He didn't know that his skin condition—something he never asked for—had become too much. All he knew was that one day, the world smelled familiar. The voices were ones he recognized. The floor beneath his paws was the only home he had ever known.

And then, without warning, it wasn't.

Surrendered. That's the word they use. But for Sebastian, it wasn't a word at all. It was a door closing. A carrier latch clicking shut. A car ride to a place that smelled like fear and bleach and too many other animals who also didn't understand why they were there.

One day he had a home. The next, he had a cage.

Thankfully, Sebastian was pulled from the shelter before it was too late. Kind hands reached in and brought him somewhere safe. He has people caring for him now people who clean his wounds, who speak softly, who give him food he doesn't have to fight for. You would think that would be the end of the sad part of his story.

But being rescued and being chosen are two very different things.

And Sebastian is still waiting.

He isn't the tiny kitten people immediately reach for. He isn't the one who bounces to the front of the cage, desperate and bright-eyed, demanding attention. He's the quiet two-year-old sitting in the back, watching. A little timid. A little unsure. But gentle. So gentle. And still hoping despite everything that someone will stop long enough to really see him.

Sebastian may not run into your arms. He may not know how anymore. Trust doesn't come easy when the world you loved disappeared without explanation. He may need a little time before he understands that you are safe. That your hands won't let go. That this time, he won't lose everything again.

But that's the problem, isn't it? That's why he keeps getting overlooked.

While people fall in love with kittens, Sebastian waits for someone willing to fall in love a little more slowly. For someone who understands that the quiet ones are worth the wait. That the shy ones love the deepest once they finally feel safe.

Someone who will sit beside him and say nothing at all. Who will let him come to them in his own time. Someone who looks at him not as a project, not as a sad story but as a soul who just needs a reason to believe again.

Sebastian has already lost his home once. He's already learned that love can disappear. He shouldn't have to spend the next chapter of his life wondering whether anyone will ever want him again. Whether he's too old, too shy, too much, or somehow not enough.

He isn't an outcast. He isn't less deserving because he's two instead of two months. He's still young. He's still soft. He still dreams. Somewhere inside that timid heart is a cat who wants nothing more than to curl up beside someone and finally rest. To finally belong.

There are more than eight million people in New York City.

He only needs one.

One person with a little patience. A quiet home. A gentle voice. Enough room in their heart to love a cat who will need time to trust but who will spend forever grateful that they didn't give up on him.

Someone to finally whisper the words he's been waiting his whole life to hear:

"You don't have to keep waiting. You're home now. You're mine."

Maybe that person simply hasn't seen him yet.

Maybe they're reading this right now.

Please share Sebastian. Not because he's loud about it. But because he can't be. Because he's spent so long being the one nobody noticed, and maybe just maybe one share could be the reason his person finally finds him.

Follow for more shelter cats still waiting for someone to finally see them. 🐾

There is an empty chair in a quiet apartment somewhere in New York City. It used to be his favorite spot. He would curl ...
08/29/2026

There is an empty chair in a quiet apartment somewhere in New York City. It used to be his favorite spot. He would curl up there for hours, warm and safe, listening to the steady rhythm of a heartbeat that promised him he would never be alone. That chair is empty now. And so is he.

For ten years, Dutchess knew exactly what the word "home" meant.

It wasn't just the four walls that kept out the cold, or the soft spot on the couch worn perfectly into the shape of his body. It was the sound of a key in the lock that made his heart leap. It was the quiet purr in the dark as he slept safely at the foot of a bed, knowing he was exactly where he belonged.

Try to imagine it. Ten years. One hundred and twenty months. Five hundred and twenty weeks. Eighty-seven thousand, five hundred hours. Five million, two hundred and fifty-six thousand minutes. Three hundred and fifteen million, three hundred and sixty thousand seconds.

For every single one of those moments, Dutchess was loved. He was warm. He was a companion, a confidant, a silent anchor in a world that never stops moving. He had it all. He was safe.

And then, one day, it ended.

Not because he ran away. Not because he did anything wrong. The only world he ever knew was shattered by the strange, flashing lights, the unfamiliar hands that gently but firmly lifted him from his bed, and the cold, hard bars of a carrier door swinging shut. His heart pounded as the only home he'd ever known disappeared from view, forever.

He didn't understand. He was taken to a place that hummed with unfamiliar sounds and smelled of clean linens and quiet sadness. He waited, his ears perked, listening for a familiar voice that would never come. Because his owner, his entire world, the person who loved him for all those millions of seconds, had passed away. He didn't just lose his home; he lost his person. He lost everything.

And here is what so many people don't understand: cats grieve just like we do. They are loyal to the bone. Dutchess isn't just confused. He is heartbroken. He is mourning a love that was ripped away without warning, a bond that was his entire reason for being. He doesn't know where his person went or why they left him. He only knows the ache of their absence. He is grieving a loss he cannot possibly comprehend.

Now, almost a week has passed. An eternity in shelter time. Each day is a blur of sorrow. He sees people walk past his kennel. He's a good boy, a friendly boy, so he presses his grey and white face against the cold metal door. He meows a soft, hopeful hello. He tries his best to be brave.

But they don't stop.

He watches as they pause, their eyes scanning the card on his door. He sees their faces soften, then shift. A small frown. A slight shake of the head. And then they walk away.

He doesn't understand the whispers. He doesn't know what words like "too old" or "medical issues" mean. All he knows is that he was friendly, he was good, and still, they passed him by. He sits back on his thin blanket, his golden eyes filled with a question that has no answer: "Am I not good enough anymore?"

He wonders why the love stopped.

In the city that never sleeps, Dutchess has become a ghost. A quiet, forgotten soul in a bustling world. He had everything, a life brimming with love and now his world has shrunk to a three-foot-by-five-foot kennel of cold concrete. He is just a shadow now, a memory of a happy cat who once had a home.

A senior cat should spend his golden years in a sunbeam, not under the harsh fluorescent lights of a shelter. No senior soul should ever have to wonder if they will ever feel the warmth of a gentle hand, or hear a kind word, ever again. The silence of a shelter at night is the loneliest sound in the world.

But it doesn't have to end this way.

Dutchess is depending on us. He's sitting in that kennel right now, his heart heavy, waiting for someone to see him. Not his age. Not a potential future problem. But him. The sweet, gentle soul who still has so much love left to give. A cat who was loyal to the bone to his first person, and who is ready to be loyal again.

We need your help, besties. You know what to do. We can't let his story end in this cold, lonely place. We are his only hope. Let's show him that the city that never sleeps is also the city that never stops loving.

Let's show Dutchess that his story isn't over. Let's show him that he can be loved again.

Please, help Dutchess. He's been waiting his whole life for a second chance. He is at Animal Care Centers of NYC (ACC)

She was just a baby herself when she became a mother.Mama Cupcake is only one year old. Her paws have barely touched the...
08/28/2026

She was just a baby herself when she became a mother.

Mama Cupcake is only one year old. Her paws have barely touched the edges of kittenhood, yet her heart has already carried the heaviest weight a mother can know. When she arrived at the shelter over three months ago, she wasn’t alone. She had her babies tucked beside her, tiny and fragile, fighting battles their little bodies weren’t equipped to win. They were sick. And Mama Cupcake, with her soulful amber eyes and a purr that never stopped hoping, poured every ounce of her own strength into them.

She couldn’t heal them herself, but she never left their side. She wrapped her small, dark body around them as if her warmth alone could protect them from a world that started out too hard, too fast.

With the help of kind humans, her kittens grew stronger. One by one, they were adopted. Mama Cupcake watched them go, nuzzling each one goodbye with a quiet dignity that only a mother could understand. Her job was done. Her children were safe. And then she was alone.

That was over three months ago. Ninety days. Two thousand one hundred and sixty hours. And still, she waits.

Her kennel is perfectly kept, as if she doesn’t want to be a bother. She greets every visitor with soft, hopeful eyes, pressing her velvety head against the bars, offering a gentle chirp that seems to say, “Maybe you? Maybe today?”

But the footsteps always pass her by.

Why? Because when people scroll through the website, they don’t see her. They don’t see the little soul who loves chin scratches so much that she drools with happiness. They don’t see the cat who makes biscuits on a soft blanket, lost in a dream of a couch she’s never had. They don’t see the way her heart shatters just a little bit more every evening when the shelter gets quiet.

They just see a black cat.

And because of a silly, ancient, unfounded superstition, a stigma that should have died centuries ago they scroll past her photo without a second thought. They don’t know that a black cat’s fur is just a veil covering a heart of pure gold. They don’t know that in many cultures, a black cat is the luckiest charm of all.

Mama Cupcake is just one year old. She should be chasing crinkle balls and attacking feather wands. She should be discovering the joy of a sunny windowsill, not staring through the glass of a cage, wondering what she did wrong. She should be a baby, cared for and doted on, not spending her first years of life dreaming about a love she’s never felt.

She sits in her bed and dreams. You can see it in her eyes. She dreams of a lap that is hers. A name spoken in a soft, loving voice. A home where the door doesn’t lock behind her.

She carried the burden of a mother’s love, and now she carries the burden of invisibility. She is sweet, she is kind, and she is running out of time to be a kitten.

Mama Cupcake has done her waiting. She has been patient. She has been brave. But she needs a miracle.

She needs us to shout loud enough for New York City to hear.

Please. Don’t let her story end in silence. Share her face. Speak her name. Show the world that the luckiest thing you could find this year is a tiny black cat who just wants to be loved. She gave her family everything she had. Now, it’s our turn to find one for her. Please share her story. She is at Puppykittynycity

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