Whenever you open your front door on a freezing winter night, street cats gather in a jiffy. You see their shadows darting your way from all the way up and down the street. Food? Drink? Warmth? Anything would do. They are desperate. As they array themselves in the light of the open door, you can see their pecking order at once. The dominant male is crouching farthest away, still barely visible. The females and adolescent males are at a safe distance, but in plain view. And the only kitten still kicking in spite of the cold is already at your doorstep, mewing miserably. The most innocent and inept among them is the most potent, too. As you slowly push your door closed, having offered nothing at all to the assembled cats, you feel most guilty about the littlest one. The best you can come up with is that you would only prolong its agony. In any case, chances are it would get not a morsel of whatever you would throw its way.

Addendum (February 13, 2007)

As you feared, the kitten did not make it through the cold spell. When you found it lying on its side, its legs stretched out improbably, it was already crawling with flies. It could not have been older than three months, which means that it was conceived way out of season, when the town was still crowded with temporary residents, and there was food aplenty. Although the nagging guilt will not leave you easily, you cannot but feel some anger, as well. And it is pointed at the temporary residents, who confuse the street cats with their extraordinary kindness. They never stay long enough to see the consequences of their good deeds.