I pick up Gimpy Waddle from where he sleeps near the portable
heater and carry him to the nest of blankets still warm from where I’ve slept,
an almost helpless creature fetched from the yard after his mother abandoned him,
yet not so helpless now though he would not have survived out of doors on his
own, his front legs barely able to operate and now, at six months old, he’s a
third the size of a normal cat his same age. While he can walk after a fashion
now, in those early days, the best he could do was roll from place to place. He
still sometimes falls down or is forced to rest when making the arduous journey
back to his spot near the heater which has replaced his mother for warmth, a
survivor, but only barely.
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