By Pamela Tambornino
Prowling his own quiet backyard or asleep by the fire, he is still only a whisker away from the wilds.
~Jean Burden
I live in the country and looked out my bay window one day to see what looked like a moving mud ball. I walked across the street and saw that it was a small mud-covered kitten. All I could see were four tiny feet, a little tail, and sad eyes. She had been dumped. I took her to the vet, and the vet dewormed her, bathed her, gave her shots, and stitched up her tail, since something had gotten hold of it -- it was a tad short. When I picked her up, she was a beautiful little tiger kitten, a few pounds short of perfect weight, and she purred and cuddled on my lap the whole way home. I gave her a Victorian name, Emma, because she liked to hide under the lace on tables and chairs and in lace clothes. In no time, with the right food and the right care, she became a part of my family that included three other cats: two Ragdolls named Andie Pandi Dandi and Perceval Puttie Tat, and one black female named Olivia.
Prowling his own quiet backyard or asleep by the fire, he is still only a whisker away from the wilds.
~Jean Burden
I live in the country and looked out my bay window one day to see what looked like a moving mud ball. I walked across the street and saw that it was a small mud-covered kitten. All I could see were four tiny feet, a little tail, and sad eyes. She had been dumped. I took her to the vet, and the vet dewormed her, bathed her, gave her shots, and stitched up her tail, since something had gotten hold of it -- it was a tad short. When I picked her up, she was a beautiful little tiger kitten, a few pounds short of perfect weight, and she purred and cuddled on my lap the whole way home. I gave her a Victorian name, Emma, because she liked to hide under the lace on tables and chairs and in lace clothes. In no time, with the right food and the right care, she became a part of my family that included three other cats: two Ragdolls named Andie Pandi Dandi and Perceval Puttie Tat, and one black female named Olivia.
I soon found out that Emma had some traits that were uniquely her own. For one thing, she loved jumping into pies when they were cooling on the stove. She did not discriminate between fruit, pudding or candied -- all made a nice whooshing and squishing sound as her little paws whooshed down and squished through them. This earned her the second name she went by: Emma Pie.
One day when Emma was eleven weeks old, she followed me out the back door, which faces a wooded area. We ran right into a coyote. I don't think the coyote was particularly partial to me, but Emma thought otherwise. She bushed right up, every tiger stripe tip in the air, shaped her body like an upside down "U," and hopped forward on all four paws toward the coyote. I froze, not knowing what to do, but Emma was in full military stalking mode.
The coyote lowered itself down toward the ground, and Emma hopped forward a few more steps. She looked much bigger than her eight pounds. This kept up for what felt like hours, but must have been minutes. Finally, Emma spit right on the coyote, and I guess that topped the tank since he was gone in a second into the woods.
I hugged that little cat with all my heart, and gave her a special cat treat when we were inside, a custard pie all her own to stomp through. I was still shaking off the adrenaline while making that pie, but I looked over and Emma was calmly grooming herself and preening like all was right with the world.
When my husband came home that evening, I told him the story of Emma Pie and the coyote and he picked out a new nickname for her — the "Ripster." She has been part of our family now for three years, and she still dashes across the floor after an imaginary mouse, and still stomps in pies. She is my little foundling that risked her all for me -- I guess it was providential and meant to be that I looked out the window that day to see that little mud ball in the street.
One day when Emma was eleven weeks old, she followed me out the back door, which faces a wooded area. We ran right into a coyote. I don't think the coyote was particularly partial to me, but Emma thought otherwise. She bushed right up, every tiger stripe tip in the air, shaped her body like an upside down "U," and hopped forward on all four paws toward the coyote. I froze, not knowing what to do, but Emma was in full military stalking mode.
The coyote lowered itself down toward the ground, and Emma hopped forward a few more steps. She looked much bigger than her eight pounds. This kept up for what felt like hours, but must have been minutes. Finally, Emma spit right on the coyote, and I guess that topped the tank since he was gone in a second into the woods.
I hugged that little cat with all my heart, and gave her a special cat treat when we were inside, a custard pie all her own to stomp through. I was still shaking off the adrenaline while making that pie, but I looked over and Emma was calmly grooming herself and preening like all was right with the world.
When my husband came home that evening, I told him the story of Emma Pie and the coyote and he picked out a new nickname for her — the "Ripster." She has been part of our family now for three years, and she still dashes across the floor after an imaginary mouse, and still stomps in pies. She is my little foundling that risked her all for me -- I guess it was providential and meant to be that I looked out the window that day to see that little mud ball in the street.
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