How I Rescued a Very Lucky Tortoiseshell Kitten

Now, I wasn't about to go inside where those slaughterhouse carcasses hung. So, I invited this big, rough dude of a firefighter outside. So, he's talking away about the emergency to which he'd been wakened the night before. My fingers flying with notes in my handy-dandy reporters' notebook.

Then, I hear the faintest, "meeeww".

In the blink of an eye Firefighter Dude stepped behind me and is now holding a tortoiseshell kitten upside down as he inspects its underside.

"Well that's a fine sow cat," he blurts. "Too bad I'll have to knock it in the head. Can't have inspectors finding varmints around the building."

I'm certain the horror I felt was written across my face. I'm thinking, "Sow? for heavens sake! This poor helpless thing is a far cry from a pig."

While the picture prospered in my head of him whacking its life out in a single smack, little did I realize this tiny castoff was on the road to rescue.

"What a jerk."

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I can't remember if the interview went any further. Probably not. The image of a head fracture to this already emaciated kitten took over.

"I'll take it," I said, with not a little self-importance.

Tortoiseshell kitten in hand, I went around to the front of the main building that was separate from the slaughterhouse. I walked onto the glistening marble entrance. Carrying the little puff ball, I walk into the office of a busy worker.

"I found this kitten outside," I said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. "Do you know who it belongs to?" (Somebody needed to feel guilty for not rescuing this tiny creature.)

"Why, no," she answered. "Who are you?"

I explained who I was. As I relayed the firefighter's "plan" for the kitten, I detected an ever-so-slight smile on her face.

Two other employees had walked into this office by now. After I re-told how I'd come to be standing there with a pitiful kitten, the three of them exchanged glances.

"I hate to tell you, but that ornery joker wouldn't hurt a flea and he has about a dozen cats of his own," she spoke softly. "I think you've been had".

I took a deep breath. Smiled in return. And, walked back to my car with a strange new tortoiseshell kitten - as its self-appointed savior.

What about the name? Chainsaw. Here's how it happened.

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When I got back to the newspaper office, the editor was out. The photographer and I made a bed in a box in the dark room (remember those?).

I filed my story and left work early. I picked up my 12-year-old son at school and showed him my little surprise.

A big smile at first and then, "Mom! What's Winnie going to do?"

Winnie, short for Winchester, was our dachshund. I had to admit it was going to be touchy. I could only hope we could persuade him to accept a feline sister. Since he was about six years old I felt this little mite wouldn't be a threat, but as it turned out, she looked like "lunch."

As we rode to the veterinarian's office for startup shots and exam, Lane held the kitten in his lap. It wasn't long before she started purring.

She was so underfed that purring seemed - from the sound of it - to be making her ribs or maybe ribs and other bones RATTLE. Lane's eyes got big. He's staring at her in surprise.

"Gosh, mom, she sounds like a chainsaw!"

I laughed. He laughed. We talked about what to name her.

The vet agreed. She sounded like a chainsaw. We talked about names on the way home. Nothing else would stick. No way around it. She was "Chainsaw."

She became healthy and beautiful and stopped rattling when she purred. She never became very large. So, the name was a bit ironic. Petite and graceful, "Chainsaw," our tortoiseshell tabby cat.

And, yes, Winchester didn't take more than a few minutes that afternoon to get used to having a cat companion. They became great buddies.

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