A shivering kitten, with an awkward little face, strayed to the entrance of a village grocers and mewed for help.
No one knew quite when shed appeareda scruffy, overlooked kitten clinging to the high street as though fate or misfortune had dumped her there. She was so tiny, a ball of damp fur with a simple pleading look. Her trembling paws folded nervously beneath her, and her fur was patchy along her ears and neck, rough and bare in spots. Passersby glanced at her hunched frame and the forlorn meow barely audible over the drizzle, but the sight of her scabbed little face and narrow eyes drove concern away faster than the cold wind.
The shopkeepers had some heart. They let the poor creature slip inside for warmth, and tried spot drops for fleas and mites, but nothing seemed to help. Frodo, as the regulars called the gruff night-shift grocer, would find her waiting each morning, as reliable as clockwork, determined to wriggle into someones arms.
With the colder nights closing infrost forming on empty milk bottles, the chills teeth sharp in the early morningeveryone knew the kitten wouldnt last long. She was already shivering with temperatures barely below freezing; the harsh winter winds of -5 or colder would surely finish her. The manager, remembering that our little rescue group had once taken in another stray from their doors, rang us.
When we arrived, the kitten spun around our shoes and the carrier, desperate in her appeal as if she understood: this was the only chance to not be left to the streets. She perched up on her hind legs, wound her trembling tail around our fingers, hoping, willing herself to be loved.
A glance was enough to tell what plagued her: mange. Thankfully, the condition wasnt too advanced, and with a round of Advocate on her scruff, recovery was in reach.
Once she was whisked away into warmth and kindness, the kitten burrowed into our arms, purring like an old diesel engine and nestling closer with every heartbeat. In those first days, it seemed eating and sleeping were her only concerns, alternating one after the other in pure relief.
Her name chose itselfPudding. She really did look like one of those awkward, lumpy Christmas puddings adored in English kitchens: uneven, unimpressive, and undeniably endearing. That awkwardness soon melted awayafter two thorough treatments, a bright-eyed, rather sweet kitten emerged.
Her ears and paws were still a little threadbare, but it was only a matter of time. Pudding was already booked in for spaying and was well on her way to becoming a hearty, groomed, and irresistibly charming young cat.
