I was leaving class one night when I heard a cat meowing. My classmate and I discovered this sweetie perched on top of a garbage can, sounding off for our attention. Her fur was matted with mud and she was extremely thin. Moving slowly, we had only minimal trouble catching her. The other girl wasn't able to take the poor cat, so I bundled her up in my back seat and took her home. When I was able to get a better look at her, I discovered she'd been declawed and one of her front paws was wounded. I carefully cleaned and bandaged it and set her up in our camper (not knowing if she'd had her shots, we were hesitant to have her around our other cats). I tried to find her owners but had zero luck. The plan became to nurse her back to health before taking her to a no-kill shelter. Not knowing what else to call her and figuring it was only temporary, I started calling her Moo-Moo.

After a couple days, though, it became apparent the paw wasn't going to heal on its own and we took her to a vet, where they properly cleaned it while she was sedated. I didn't want to leave the poor thing alone when she was still lethargic, so I started keeping her in my room. And that was it. It became very obvious that I wasn't going to let anyone take her away from me. Her paw healed, her stupid name stuck and she became one of the sweetest cats I've ever owned.