It was Memorial Day, 1995. As I went about my volunteer work at the Homer Animal Shelter, I kept one eye on the parking lot. When I spotted the young woman approaching with a shoebox in her hands, I wasn't surprised. Sherry, the shelter manager, had told me to expect her.

The tiny gray kitten looked as if she slept peacefully, nestled in clean towels lining the box, but the back of her head was a matted mess of blood and vegetation.

"I don't think the dog really meant to hurt her. It was just trying to play," the woman explained. She had looked out her window several hours before to see a strange dog toying with what she thought was a small rabbit or a vole. Only when she shooed the dog away did she discover this gravely injured kitten.

The veterinary clinic was closed for the holiday weekend. The only source of help she could think of was the Animal Shelter, so dressed in her church clothes and clutching the carefully wrapped box, she came to us.

Healthy adult cats can be badly--even fatally--injured by well-intentioned dogs. I didn't hold out much hope for this tiny scrap of a kitten. Gently, I thanked the lady for rescuing the kitten and bringing it in. "There's not a lot we can do," I told her. "She will probably go into shock and die. That's Nature's way of handling serious injuries like this. But we'll do what we can to keep her comfortable."

It was a rotten deal--that such a lovely Spring day should be the last day of a too-brief life. The woman had searched her neighborhood for an owner, for other kittens or a mother---all in vain. Looking at the bits of insulation matted in the kitten's fur, I had to agree with her that this was probably one of a litter of kittens born under a house or trailer. At about 5 weeks of age, she was the right size for some ill-fated exploring of her surroundings. It looked like her infant curiosity would cost her life.

When my work was done, I checked the shoebox. Instead of the sad little corpse I expected to find, the silent kitten still lived. Watching the steady rhythm of her breathing, I couldn't guess how much longer she would survive, but I decided to take the box home with me--she shouldn't have to die alone. I would stand her death watch.

At home, she roused a bit when I trickled water into her mouth. I gently felt her body, but couldn't detect any obviously broken bones, and she seemed able to move without difficulty. I cleaned the worst of the dirt from her head wound and made her comfortable for the night.

When morning came, she was still alive, and seemed more alert, but her head had begun to swell and she felt hot, feverish. Well, if she was going to do the hard work of trying to live through this, the least I could do was foot the bill. I phoned the vet, who agreed to meet us at his office. In short order, he had shaved away the matted fur at the back of her head and opened the abscessing wound there. Had the canine tooth punctured her brain or spinal cord? There didn't seem to be any neural cells in the draining fluid, nor any obvious nerve damage in the semi-conscious kitten. So we went home with antibiotics, convalescent food and nursing instructions.

I rinsed her wound twice daily, washing out white clots and infection. Fevers wracked her, throwing her tiny body into convulsions--the first time I saw one, I thought I was witnessing her death throes. But the little gray kitten tenaciously clung to life, and together we walked the valley of the shadow. Days passed with veterinary visits and nights were spent monitoring her temperature, sleeping with the tiny kitten beside me.

There was no question of a home for this one. She was mine, this stubborn little fighter. I wasn't sure how I was going to convince Dennis that we needed another cat, but it turned out, I didn't have to. I came home to find him--just back from out of town--sitting on the bed, watching the kitten eat. "Looks like we got ourselves another cat," he observed.

As weeks passed, she grew stronger, and exhibiting all the exuberance of a healthy kitten. The only visible memento of her trauma--the habit of holding her little head cocked to one side--persisted for a few months. So we named her Lena because she leaned.

The little kitten I took home to die in 1995 continues to thrive. She experiences occasional brief seizures, a result of her brain infection, but they have no impact on her enjoyment of life and have become fewer as she ages. She is a quiet, even-tempered cat, perhaps one of our most mellow. Despite the hard start she got in life, she radiates a placid contentment at odds with her tenacity and endurance.