I was sprawled on the floor reading the Sunday paper one evening in June 2004 when my husband excitedly trotted to our front door and said, “I think I hear something outside.” I plugged my fingers in my ears satirically and said, “Don’t hear anything, la, la, la, la, la.” I had already taken two cats to the no-kill shelter that year because we owned two rescued cats. We lived beside a 20-acre farm field that served as the general drop off for unwanted pets. “Come look at this,” said my husband as he poked his head around the door. Outside on our porch I found a dirty, skinny, crying white kitten about eight weeks old. Of course I scooped him up and sent my husband for canned food and kitten milk. Kato has been with us ever since.

Pamela Palmer
Salt Lake City, UT