Hell, why am I doing this? It'll just make me sad. But anways, I don't own the story. Just so you, the POV is Arthur's.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.
Story idea belongs to the unknown author of Ugly the Cat.

You know how there's always that one cat that was never acknowledged by others? Well that cat was Ugly.

He had the most golden fur, blemished by chunks of fur ripped out in various places. One sky blue eye stood alone on his forgiving face, the other looking as if it had been roughly scooped out by something with massive paws. Scars decorated his head, and half of his pink nose was gone. Ugly had no tail; in fact, there was no fur at all down his spine and underbelly. I'm pretty sure he had sight problems, because his only eye had a milky shine to it. The one thing that was somewhat decent he owned was an old and tattered forest green collar.

But no matter what, that bruised cat always had a pleasant smile, and aloof. Ugly would follow other cats around everyday, including me. And everytime, he would be roughly rejected. I remember Gilbert swore on his mother's catnip that Ugly was going to flip one day, driven mad by the horrifying truth of being absolutely alone.

Ugly once helped a kitten out of the clutches of a terrifying mastiff; the kit's mother just clawed at Ugly. The mastiff always prowled after Ugly, obviously enraged that a cat so hideous as him would dare take its meal.

I myself would watch the golden cat from the safety of my tree, occasionaly accompanied by Francis or Kiku. We often spectated how Ugly came to be so, well, ugly.

It was a spectorial situation for Ugly, a cat with the biggest and most loving heart around for miles. It soon became apparent that despite his prodigious acts of kindness, it would never be returned to him. After a few years of Ugly running around the neighborhood being the hero, he was attacked viciously by the same mastiff he thwarted many months ago.

Having heard his pained cries, I leaped down from my tree and scampered over to wear he lay, twitching in a pool of his own blood. As I looked down at him, my paws getting drenched by the scarlet substance, Ugly slowly started licking the blood off my paws. All better, he mewed. I laid down by him, pressing my own tawny fur into his scarred flank. His chest was heaving with the simple act of breathing. I don't remember how long it took for his body to give out on him. Probably long enough. I woke the next morning, coated in sticky blood, and pressed up against Ugly. I quickly stretched and dragged him to the tree I always hung out on by his scruff.

A few cats gave me disgusted glances as I passed by with Ugly. Only I buried him under that mighty oak. Apparently nobody gave a mouse's tail about Ugly's well-being.

I still have his collar.