Good night, Sheryl Cruz

I brought Sheryl Cruz (Crewe, as my sister and cousins insist) to the PAWS animal shelter along Aurora Boulevard this morning, the receptionist said their veterinarian would look at the poor thing, but chances are, she will be "put to sleep" (read: euthanasia).

Sheryl needs her mother, and the shelter did not have a mother cat, for milk and everything else, such as licking her eyes. She would have died an agonizing death, had she stayed under my care, the receptionist said.

The vetererinarian will inject Sheryl with sodium pentobarbital, afterwards, she will die in her sleep. The receptionist consolded me with the fact that the poor cat will be buried in a pet cemetery, one block away from the shelter.

I signed a waiver so, in a way, I am partly responsible in case the veterinarian puts her to "sleep." So much for rescuing her. My sister claims her asthma is triggered by cat fur and I will be out of town for the weekend so Sheryl would have died of hunger in the apartment.

On a happier note, I checked on Laya, a dog my colleague rescued from dog meat traders, who was recovering at the shelter and he was looking good.

Laya has grown his fur back. The last time I saw him in a PAWS newsletter, he was bruised and shaved, ready to be turned into "kapukan."