I hear Anny gently crying in the next room as I write this, but it is not a cry of distress. It is a cry that asks, "Where are you?" Now she enters my room, walks up to the desk and looks up at me with her big, green eyes. I tell her, "Relax cat, it'll be all right." But it won't be all right, because this little tiger kitty doesn't have much time left before she has to go to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

She was abandoned by a student, someone who no doubt thought a kitten would be a pleasant diversion. But the student got bored and the cat got the boot. I became aware of Anny's plight during Halloween when some drunken students were chasing her around the alleys of the apartment complex I live in. They were howling like dogs as they ran. But Anny got away.

During the next few weeks I'd hear her yowl at nights as she looked for shelter and sustenance, so I started leaving food out for her. The food would always disappear, but Anny would run away whenever she saw me. Then the weather got bitterly cold, and I saw her outside one day. I thought she would run away again when I opened the door, but the cold made her take the chance of trusting a human again. She entered.

It may have been the worst mistake Anny ever made because she can't stay. My roommates don't want Anny hanging around and we're not allowed to have cats where I live. So I can't help her out much longer. I've called Promotion of Animal Welfare and Safety (PAWS) and tried putting ads in the paper, but the two people who were interested changed their minds after having made "firm" commitments to take Anny in. I suppose they're as capricious as Anny's master was.

Now she's curled up beside the keyboard. I heard her purring, like she does so often. She sat in my lap today, another show of the trust that she is quickly regaining. But I know how her trust will be rewarded. She will be frightened when I put her in a box and take her to the SPCA. She will be disoriented when she is put in the holding cage. Perhaps she will look at me as I leave. "What am I doing here? Where are you going?"

And, in a few days, a person dressed in white will reach in her cage and grab Anny by the back of the neck. Perhaps her mind will flash back to the kids who chased her around the alleys. Then she will feel pain as the needle penetrates her abdomen, her paws will flail at the air. The vet will put her back in the cage, and 20 seconds later Anny will be no more. Her last memory of human contact will be one of pain and terror.

She just looked up at me again. "I'm trying to help you out, Anny, but it doesn't look good." Now she's purring like a motor boat. I'm glad she doesn't know what is in store. And I wish I knew the student who put Anny in this situation because I'd really like to tell him or her a thing or two about responsibility.

But if someone is willing to make a lifelong commitment to Anny, please give me a call at 862-8921. And please mean what you say. . .because Anny's time is quickly running out.