On Christmas Eve, six years ago, my daughter and I made the traditional rounds of the neighborhood with tins of tarts, something we had done for years. Due to an intense ice storm, we discovered we were in a virtual ghost town. Most everyone had left their cold, dark homes in search of functioning power sources. The only sound was our generator chugging away, until we heard the frantic mewling of a kitten, deep inside the bushes by the front door. The temperatures had dropped to dangerous lows and somehow, saving that kitten seemed as important to us as any harrowing rescue mission could be. Besides, it was the only excitement available to us.
We donned protective gloves and crawled in after the sounds and pulled a wildly protesting long-haired feline from the prickles and ice. The strong smell of chemicals followed the mangy, terrified kitten; I suspected someone had tried to euthanize him. We took the little wildcat inside and further traumatized him with a proper bath. His hunger finally overcame his fear and he wolfed down a saucer of milk. I put him in the garage in a snug box covered with a screen held down with bricks. In the morning the box was empty.
It took us weeks to coax this tough and beautiful kitty to trust us. He now rules the roost, promptly disposing of any other pet we've tried to add to the family. No, he didn't eat them, he just terrorized them so thoroughly they ran off and never returned. Sometimes I'm surprised I'm allowed to live here.
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