Thirteen years ago I received an unexpected knock on my door. A lady was standing there, returning a kitten that I had recently given to her.

“Sorry, my husband doesn’t want to keep it. He thinks she’s retarded.”

The lady handed me the little calico-tabby and left. I stood there looking at the liter’s runt, wondering how anyone couldn’t love her. She had already been rejected once, narrowly escaping a dreadful fate by her original owner.

Her rescue began a few weeks before when I learned that my grandpa’s neighbor owned a neglected, outdoor cat with a young litter of kittens. Hearing that he was planning to inhumanly euthanize these poor creatures, I acted impulsively and catnapped mama kitty and her babies. It was all I could do after being told that old Norm was a repeat offender in dumping live kittens in a freezer as an unfathomable solution to animal control. He wouldn’t get his cat spayed and I couldn’t find any legal authorities that would take action, but I was all too happy to take in the malnourished feline family. They stayed with me until the kittens were weaned and I was able to find good homes for the all of them.

As a starving college student I didn’t think I could take any kittens myself, but when my favorite little misfit came back to me I knew she was destined to be a longtime companion. I named her India Rose, and the same clinic that officered special assistance in spaying India’s mommy also helped with all of her medical needs. The vet told me that she had a neurological disorder that affected her eyesight. Looking much like a toy bobble head, India had to scan objects up and down in order to see them. Between the continuous head bobbing, and her habitual drooling, people often had the impression that she was developmentally delayed. I preferred to see her as a happy little Buddha granting wishes!

About a year later India proved just how special she was by cautiously dropping what appeared to be her over-worn chew toy at my feet. I picked it up to toss it across the room for her to chase when the cold, bare plaything squirmed in my hand. I let out a squeal and stopped myself from throwing it just in time.

I was young, naive and knew little about wildlife at the time, and it took me a few weeks before I was able to identify her prize as a baby tree squirrel. The little rascal was determined to survive. I named him Nigel and decided I would do my best to raise him along with my cat. She nurtured him as if he was her own, and the two became inseparable.

The experience peeked my interested in wildlife rescue. Now, more than a decade later, I find myself taking in critters or calls on a daily bases from shelters, veterinary offices and the general public. I’ve rehabilitated everything from bunnies to deer. Wildlife care has become a way of life, and I owe it all to India. If she hadn’t brought home that little orphaned squirrel these many years ago, I would never have found this path.

Over the years, India has never disturbed a single wild animal that has recovered in our home. She has in fact, become close with many of the domestic animals adopted by our family. Among her menagerie of friends are two domestic bunnies, a tortoise, a mouse, a dog, and a charm of finches.

Fortunately, my little hairy heroine hasn’t presented me with any more reanimated chew toys. India Rose has remained the all faithful “mama’s little girl” and abandoned her ferial ways long ago, but she will always befriend the wild. She has been my most special friend in the world, and I believe she is directly responsible for having saved hundreds of compromised lives.

Mitzi L. Boles