By Suleika Jaouad
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My nomadic childhood as the self-anointed Mother Teresa of stray animals
I find the half-dead kitten behind a dumpster on my way back from the school bus. It lays motionless on the pavement, eyes sealed shut, gasoline-smeared fur glistening a burnt orange under the scorch of the Mediterranean sun. I scoop the kitten between cupped palms, careful to support its lolling head, and walk to the house.
In the heat, the white-domed roof shimmers; the sound of waves slapping sand beckon cool in the distance. I retrieve my tool kit and get to work in the courtyard, where palm fronds offer shade, mixing formula into a silky smooth consistency and filling the three-milliliter syringe. Cont
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The Writers Quilt 