Family finds abandoned cat on the street – look closer and realize it’s not a regular kitten

This story, from 2016, is just too adorable not to share. A teeny tiny baby kitten was spotted roaming the streets on its own in Thailand. A family living in the neighborhood was enjoying their evening when they noticed the little guy on the street.

Upon closer inspection, they realized this was no ordinary cat — it didn’t look like any of the other kittens they had seen. The family decided to call The Wildlife Friends Foundation Thailand (WFFT), an animal organization, who soon showed up to have a look at the animal.

After careful examination, the organization concluded that this animal was a fishing cat — a special kind of cat on the brink of extinction.

This ‘wild cat’ can grow up to become twice the size of a regular cat and is a big fan of marine life. The cat is especially fond of hunting and eating fish, hence its name.

According to Wikipedia, “the fishing cat (Prionailurus viverrinus) is a medium-sized wild cat of South and Southeast Asia. Since 2016, it is listed as Vulnerable on the IUCN Red List. Fishing cat populations are threatened by destruction of wetlands and declined severely over the last decade. Fishing cats live foremost in the vicinity of wetlands, along rivers, streams, oxbow lakes, in swamps and mangroves.”

WFFT discovered that the kitten had left its mother’s womb just a few hours prior to when the family found him. Specialists at the organization were baffled as to how a mother had been able to abandon its new born baby like that — unusual for the breed.

The family took a liking to the rare cat and were allowed to keep it for a trial period. They decided to call him Simba. It was apparent that the cat felt very attached to the family.

The family kept an eye out at all times for the mother of the kitten, whom they assumed would show up at any time for her child.

Sadly, that never happened.

Simba was milk-fed by the family instead, and grew up to become a beautiful fishing cat.

Luckily, so far he is still alive and well but it’s extremely important that Simba continues to thrive.

According to the WFFT, “poaching and retribution killing were the major causes for a high Fishing Cat mortality of 84% in Thailand.”

So, not only is it a miracle that Simba was rescued and survived — his existence is vital for the continuation of his breed.

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Nobody expected fifty bikers at my son\’s funeral. Least of all the four teenagers who put him there. I\’m not a crier. Twenty-six years as a high school janitor taught me to keep my emotions locked down tight. But when that first Harley rumbled into the cemetery parking lot, followed by another, then another, until the whole place vibrated with thunder—that\’s when I finally broke. My fourteen-year-old boy, Mikey, had hanged himself in our garage. The note he left mentioned four classmates by name. \”I can\’t take it anymore, Dad,\” he\’d written. \”They won\’t stop. Every day they say I should kill myself. Now they\’ll be happy.\” The police called it \”unfortunate but not criminal.\” The school principal offered \”thoughts and prayers\” then suggested we have the funeral during school hours to \”avoid potential incidents.\” I\’d never felt so powerless. Couldn\’t protect my boy while he was alive. Couldn\’t get justice after he was gone. Then Sam showed up at our door. Six-foot-three, leather vest, gray beard down to his chest. I recognized him—he pumped gas at the station where Mikey and I would stop for slushies after his therapy appointments. \”Heard about your boy,\” he said, standing awkward on our porch. \”My nephew did the same thing three years back. Different school, same reason.\” I didn\’t know what to say, so I just nodded. \”Thing is,\” Sam continued, looking past me like the words hurt to say, \”nobody stood up for my nephew. Not at the end, not after. Nobody made those kids face what they did.\” He handed me a folded paper with a phone number. \”You call if you want us there. No trouble, just… presence.\” I didn\’t call. Not at first. But the night before the funeral, I found Mikey\’s journal. Pages of torment. Screenshots of text messages telling my gentle, struggling son to \”do everyone a favor and end it.\” My hands shook as I dialed the number. \”How many people you expecting at this funeral?\” Sam asked after I explained. \”Maybe thirty. Family, some teachers. None of his classmates.\” \”The ones who bullied him—they coming?\” \”Principal said they\’re planning to, with their parents. To \’show support.\’\” The words tasted like acid. Sam was quiet for a moment. \”We\’ll be there at nine. You won\’t have to worry about a thing.\” I didn\’t understand what he meant until I saw them the next morning—a sea of leather vests, weathered faces, and solemn eyes. The Hell\’s Angels patches visible as they formed two lines leading to the small chapel, creating a corridor of protection. The funeral director approached me, panic in his eyes. \”Sir, there are… numerous motorcycle enthusiasts arriving. Should I call the police?\” \”They\’re invited guests,\” I said. When the four boys arrived with their parents, confused expressions turned to fear as they saw the bikers. Sam stepped forward and…. Check out the first comment to read the full story

Nobody expected fifty bikers at my son’s funeral. Least of all the four teenagers who put him there. I’m not a crier. Twenty-six years as a high…