How a kitchen became a sanctuary.
I am not a vet. I am not a charity. I am not, in any official capacity, anyone’s rescuer. I am a person with a kitchen, a kettle, a soft voice when I remember to use it, and a long-standing inability to look the other way.
The first cat — the one through the window — stayed for eleven years. She is the reason every cat after her has had somewhere to come. She showed me how to sit on the floor and wait. That, it turns out, is most of the work.
It became a calling without my permission.
The second one was an accident. The third, a pattern. By the fifth I had stopped pretending. The local vet stopped asking why I came in so often and started asking which one this time. We’ve known each other a decade now.
When Raven arrived, in 2022, everything got more serious. Her injuries were severe. Her recovery was long. The bills were honestly impossible — and that was the point at which a small handful of people online decided they wanted to help carry that. They’ve been carrying it ever since.
What you’re actually supporting.
Every euro that comes through here goes toward food, vet bills, and the colony three streets over — nothing else. There’s no overhead. There’s no salary. There’s a kitchen table with receipts on it and a person who will tell you, honestly and gladly, where every cent went.
If you’ve ever wondered whether your small donation matters: it bought the antibiotics that kept Raven alive in week three. It paid for Shadow’s carrier when he was finally ready to be lifted. It is buying the kibble in the colony bowls tomorrow morning at 7am.
Thank you for being here. Truly.