I’m Casandra, a young street cat living in the narrow, maze-like alleys of Lamu Old Town in Kenya.
The cobblestone streets are my bed and the stone buildings towering above me resemble coral from the sea. There are no cars here, so I often sleep on the road – though the donkeys keep me alert. My home is beautiful, but it is also dangerous for a cat like me: food is scarce, illness spreads quickly and not every human is kind.
I am one of thousands of street cats on Lamu Island.
I don’t remember my mother and I’m not sure what happened to my brothers and sisters. Kittens disappear quickly in Lamu – especially once the sneezing, swollen, pus-filled eyes and runny noses start.
This is me, Casandra. I may not have a home or an owner, but I have this shop and the kind local lady who feeds me when she can. Credit: NFA/Ian Karinga
For a long time, I was starving – so ravenous that my tiny bones showed through my fur. One day, a fisherman tossed me a scrap of fish. Every morning after that, I started waiting at the waterfront for the boats to return. When it’s a good day for the fishermen, it’s a good day for hungry cats like me. When it isn’t, I search the rubbish heaps for scraps.
Every day is a fight to survive – searching for food and keeping my distance from sickly cats for fear of catching whatever horrible disease they may carry. Some of them are in so much pain they can barely open their eyes.
One day at the rubbish heaps, I met Rehema. She is older and wiser, and she looks a bit like me. Her name means “compassion” in Swahili and it suits her. She led me to a small local shop where a kind woman feeds her every day. She now feeds me too.
This is Rehema and me. She showed me where to find more food. She’s already been vaccinated and sterilized – and it’s made her stronger and healthier. Credit: NFA/Ian Karinga
Rehema is different from many of the other cats. I asked her why.
Every couple of months, humans in red shirts visit from the mainland. They catch cats, give them vaccinations to prevent swollen eyes and runny noses and then put them to sleep for a little while to sterilize them. So far, they’ve sterilized and vaccinated 3,774 of us.
A few weeks ago, they came for me too. I overheard them tell the shopkeeper that I am too small to be sterilized. But they vaccinated and dewormed me so I can grow strong enough for my turn.
One of the humans in red shirts. They bring vets from the mainland to help keep us healthy and safe. Credit: NFA/Byron Seale
They say it will “cost” $25 when I’m ready for sterilization. I’m not sure what that means. But I do know this: it will stand between me and a life of sickness and prevent future kittens from being born into the same hunger and suffering I have known in my short life.
I heard you are the reason the people in the red shirts can come to Lamu. And without you, they can’t return.
Will you give $25 today to help sterilize and protect a cat like me in Lamu?
There are so many of us. Sterilization means fewer kittens are born into hunger and disease and vaccination helps keep us strong. Credit: NFA/Ian Karinga
The fishermen and the local shopkeeper feed Rehema and me when they can. But we cannot ask them for $25.
We can only wait and hope for the people in the red shirts to come back for us. And humans like you have the power to make that happen.
Please donate today to send Network for Animals back to Lamu – for me and for the thousands of island cats still waiting.
