08/03/2025
WE PULLED TWO KITTENS OUT OF A BURNING HOUSE—AND THEN THEY REFUSED TO LEAVE OUR SIDE
The call came in as a structure fire on 5th and Madison. Vacant house, possibly squatters. We suited up, like we always do—fast, focused, no time for second guesses.
By the time we arrived, the back half of the place was already caved in. Smoke was thick. Visibility next to nothing.
We swept the lower level, just to be safe. That’s when I heard it—a faint, frantic mewling, barely cutting through the crackling wood.
“Over here,” I yelled, turning toward a collapsed bookcase near the corner.
Underneath it, shivering in a busted laundry basket, were two kittens. One black, one white with a patchy face. Covered in soot. Scared out of their minds.
We didn’t hesitate.
I wrapped them in my fire hood and tucked them inside my coat. Felt them pressed against my chest the whole way out. Tiny hearts beating a mile a minute.
Back at the station, we gave them water. Washed them gently with damp towels. Figured we’d drop them off at a shelter after shift.
But something funny happened.
They wouldn’t leave us alone.
Curled up in our laps. Followed us around. Meowed if we walked too far away. Like they’d picked us—not the other way around.
We tried to keep it light. Joked about starting a firehouse cat crew. Gave them nicknames: Smokey and Ash. But deep down, I think we all felt it.
Something about them stuck.
Later that week, a homeless man camped outside our station—
(Story continues in the first
