No. We are not going to keep her.

On Saturday morning, Stuart, Paige, Ashley, John and I went to the small but impressive Dandridge Farmer’s Market. As we were pulling up, Stuart said, “Uh oh,” and spelled out what was on the sign, “F-R-E-E-K-I-T-T-E-N-S.” It didn’t matter. Ashley spotted them right away. She picked out one to hold, the tiniest, with soft blonde fur. The teenaged girls who were responsible for them told us they would have to take them to the animal shelter if they couldn’t give them away that day. Maybe it was a scam, but I fell for it. The kitty did not end up with Ashley but with me. I figured with all the people I work with someone would love to have her. She made the trip down the mountain, not a peep from her box the whole way.

For the night, I settled her into the bathroom, a small safe area. With my still finely tuned mother's ears, I knew I would hear her if she gave a hungry cry. About 0530 I was awakened by a desperate, high pitched “Meow!” Prepared to give the baby some milk and a spoonful of canned food, I opened the door and went in the bathroom. She was nowhere to be seen. Then I realized the meow was not coming from where I had expected. I looked in the toilet bowl and saw two huge, frightened black eyes looking back at me. I reached in and pulled her out by the scruff of the neck. She was soaked and dripping. How she got in I don’t know. She is too small to be able to jump that high. I held her under warm, running tap water and rinsed her off. (So much for the safe place.) Then I gently toweled her fur, feeling her delicate bones underneath. I kept her warm and held her for over an hour until she purred, letting me know she was going to be all right.

She has already used one of her nine lives