Back home, I have three cats. They are spoiled in the way all beloved pets should be. Traveling through the Balkans, though, I kept noticing how many animals lived without any of the same lifestyle. Every city seemed to have stray cats tucked beneath café tables or dogs wandering streets like unofficial locals. Mostar was no different.
Ben and I met a dog we instantly named “Mr. Mostar.” He was huge and impossibly affectionate. The kind of dog that leans its whole body against you as if you’ve known each other for years. We stood under the lights of old stone streets, scratching behind his ears far longer than we intended to.
I met a few stray cats, too, weaving between restaurant chairs and alleyways. By the time I got back to where we were staying, I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I knew I couldn’t rescue every animal I met, but I also knew I could do something. I decided I would spend hours wandering, feeding, and petting as many animals as I could find.
At first, I only had attention to offer. I crouched beside a cat near a bench and scratched under his chin while he screamed dramatically at me. A woman passing by stopped, said something I couldn’t understand, and when I shrugged apologetically, she smiled, reached into her purse, and pulled out a can of cat food. She opened it and set it in the grass.
The cat dove in immediately.
I sat there grinning while he ate, watching. That was when I realized where I needed to go next.
A few minutes later, I walked out of a small market carrying an absurd amount of cat food and a couple of packs of dog food, just in case fate brought me another Mr. Mostar.
My first customer was a cat prancing inside a dumpster. She yelled at me the second she saw me and demanded affection. I stared at the dumpster, thought briefly about germs, but reached in to scratch her head. She purred instantly. When I opened the food, she leapt down and devoured it, then rubbed against my legs afterward as if to say thank you.
The next two cats I found nearly started a fight because neither realized there was enough food for both of them. Once they figured it out, peace negotiations resumed, and they ate side by side.
I wandered back toward the city center, where I’d seen more cats the day before. Two shy ones lingered near a wall, watching me carefully. I set the food down and backed away so they’d feel safe enough to approach. They crept forward slowly, ears twitching, until hunger finally overcame caution.
A little farther down the street, I spotted a tiny younger cat hiding beneath a ledge. I waited nearby while she ate, silently standing guard against louder cats or passing dogs.
Then I came across another cat already eating from an abandoned can of food left out by someone else.
That was the moment that stuck with me most.
Because it meant I wasn’t alone in caring for them.
Mostar was full of invisible kindness. Someone else had seen this hungry animal and decided to help. Someone else carried cat food in their purse just in case. In a city shaped by so much history and hardship, people still made room for tenderness.
I ran into “Dirty Cat” again, one of the first cats I’d met. He looked exactly as rough as before: crusty, scarred ears, permanently annoyed expression. But when he recognized me, he trotted over confidently for scratches like we were old friends.
Near the old bridge, I found a dog asleep in the middle of the stone walkway, entirely unbothered by tourists stepping around him. He had chosen a beautiful place for a nap. I quietly placed some food beside him so that whenever he woke up, dinner would be waiting.
Eventually, I stopped at a café for coffee, thinking I was finally taking a break from cats. Of course, a cat was sitting casually on one of the chairs inside. I laughed, drank my coffee, scratched his ears, and accepted that this had simply become my day.
By evening, I’d run out of food and met back up with the group for dinner. Later that night, Ben and I wandered through town again and, somehow, found Mr. Mostar on the opposite side of the city, this time with another dog we immediately named Mrs. Mostar, his wife.
The second I ran across the street, Mr. Mostar recognized me and bounded over happily. I wrapped my arms around his dusty fur, fed both of them the last of the dog food, and stood there laughing while they wagged their tails.