He Had No Home, No Family—except for the Cat That Slept on His Chest Every Night. “she Chose Me,” He Said. “that’s All That Matters.”

I first noticed him outside the 24-hour laundromat, asleep on a torn camping mat with a tiny orange cat curled across his chest. I started bringing leftovers from my night shift—muffins, soup, a grilled cheese—and he always fed the cat first. Her name was Hazel, he said. Shelters wouldn’t take her, so he chose the street over warmth.

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Then they vanished. Days later, Hazel appeared at a bus stop, thin but calm, and walked straight to me. I took her home, called every shelter and hospital I could think of, and finally learned his name—Martin—from a outreach regular. A tip led me to County General: severe pneumonia, no ID, in a coma.

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I sat by his bed and told him Hazel was safe. When he woke, the nurse bent the rules and I brought Hazel in; she leapt onto his blanket like she’d never left. With help from a charity, Martin moved into a tiny pet-friendly studio. Hazel trotted in like she owned it.