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I was four - nearly five - when my mom found her dream house and we moved into it. Several things were different about this house. It was in the country. There was a barn and some horses. The yard was a lot bigger. And, since it was my mom's dream house, it would be a pet-free zone. It was to be kept in immaculate condition no claw marks on the floor, no hair on the sofas, no messes under beds, as Sam, our vindictive cat at that time had a tendency to do when he was angry with us. And he was usually angry with us.

The barn was fantastic. A man kept all kinds of animals in it: goats, sheep, ponies, and several cats that were officially employed as mousers, but were more effective as playmates for my brother and I. We discovered you can have way more fun with animals out-of-doors, and we soon forgot about the house pet embargo.

Only once in those first few years was an animal invited inside. One of the new kittens had a deep gash on her belly. So Mom, ever the nurse, brought her in, took her to the vet, regularly changed the dressing and cleaned the wound, and promptly threw her back outside when she was better. That kitten thought she had made it, but it seemed like nothing could melt my mom's icy demeanor towards animals, no matter how soft their fur or how loudly they purred.

A year or so after that, a little white-and-black ball of fluff succeeded where his predecessor had failed. This little kitten, spotted like a cow, somehow (and this still remains a mystery) developed a huge, open sore on the back of his neck. My brother and I kept an eye on it, and as it grew to eventually become the length of his entire neck, we decided to tell Mom.

She promptly determined the dusty old barn was not a sterile enough environment for convalescence. So the invalid kitty was brought into the house. Never was an animal more suited to indoor living. He didn't have to share his food. There was always a sofa or bed to lie on. There was ample attention, but seeing as how most of it was from two children under the age of ten, most of it was unwanted.

This cat knew he was meant for the house, and luckily for him, he didn't heal at all quickly. Mom thought that clean dressings and a cleaner environment would do the trick. But after a few months it was clear the sore wasn't getting any smaller. With no other options, Mom took the cat to the vet. It was only when they asked for the patient's name that Mom realized, the cat didn't have one.

Armed with various medications and a determination

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