My little boy Willy

Rescued from a shelter, you stayed with us for two years and would have turned 12 on July 9th.

We were warned that you were very special, no children under 15, territorial, a biter... All good qualities, but we took the risk of adopting you hoping to give you a comfortable end of life.

You couldn't stand our two old females and attacked them several times; they were too afraid to even walk in the house, poor things.

We were bitten by you five or six times. The first few weren't too serious, but the last one was the last straw: a four-centimeter gash on your thumb and both arms covered in wounds.

I think you were beaten in one of your previous lives, and that you suffered serious aftereffects; I suspect a brain tumor.

I firmly believe that something important was recorded in your booklet during your last adoption, which only lasted a week, because that booklet was lost and a new one was created for our adoption—strange and suspicious.

The vet prescribed a cannabis-based medication that was supposed to relieve and calm you, but unfortunately, it had no effect.

The only solution was to contact the shelter to have them come and collect him, which was done this past Saturday, February 14, 2026.

It's sad that it came to this, but we had no choice. The next bites might have been to your face, so what?

You left with your basket and blanket, a few stuffed animals and balls, and a whole collection of treats, but most importantly, with a piece of our heart. Even if it's beyond saving, you were our baby for two years.

You were our last baby. After the two girls left, I'm closing the door on my heart; you'll always be there.

Good luck, my little boy, because you won't be put up for adoption again, but I'm not so sure. For these people, money is everything; there's no room for feelings, neither for animals nor for humans.

I thought you'd stay in that prison, but I just saw that you've been put up for adoption again. Damn, what a life on this earth.