If any of you have met me, you’ll know right away that I am a cat person. I first rescued my cat, Pumpkin, almost 14 years ago on Halloween. It was a cold Halloween night in Dallas, Texas, and I was getting ready for bed after a successful night of trick-or-treating when I heard an awful screeching outside of my bedroom window. My parents rushed in, and when they heard the same shrill of the dreadful noise they ran out the back door to find a small, cold, wet, orange tabby kitten shuddering against the chill of the fall wind. My mom grabbed some warm towels and bundled the little thing up to bring him inside. He was underdeveloped, scared, and looked to be about 4 weeks old. Being that October is Texas State Fair season, I had won my own fair share of terrycloth and fuzzy stuffed animals from the carnival games. Retreating to my closet, I selected a pink, terry cloth bear that was roughly the size of a small squirrel and then picked up some wet cat food. I placed the food and the bear next to the little kitten and he engulfed the food immediately then looked up at me with hungry eyes wanting some more. I granted his wishes and returned with more food and some water and after his meal of four cans of cat food and a bowl of water, he snuggled up next to the bear (which was bigger than him at this time) and fell fast asleep. I promptly announced to my parents that he shall be mine and I shall call him Pumpkin because it was Halloween, he was orange, and therefore the name befitted him. So here we are, 14 years later, sharing an apartment together with the same pink terry cloth bear.