The half-grown orange kitten edged out of the field behind our house. The children, watching through the windows as she explored our yard, decided that she needed food, warmth, and taming.

Over the next months as fall turned into winter, they left trails of kibble across the lawn, up the stairs, and into the house. With the door cracked, and the woodstove spreading its welcome heat, the scrawny kitty finally ventured inside and settled down by the stove with a bowl of milk.

The girls named her "Grackle" for her rasping miaow like the cry of the small black bird.

For weeks she wasn't really "ours." She arrived for meals and a nap by the stove, but went back to the field at night. Finally, an infected leg kept her inside long enough for her to lose her shyness and to adopt us as her family.

That swollen leg also earned her a visit to the vet. To our surprise, the vet told us she wasn't a kitten--she was at least 6 years old. Her marginal existence in the fields had stunted her growth.

With care and regular feeding, the leg healed and she plumped up. Miraculously, her personality also changed from skittish to mellow and loving.

She was so loving that everyone who saw her was charmed. When we held yard sales she would settle on the display table in order to gather all the petting that she could. More than one person asked to buy the beautiful orange cat.

Grackle lived to be 21--an ancient among cats. She was a sweetie.