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On November 11th, at about 930 AM, I was preparing to turn right from Oak Street onto Rosedale/178, when I saw something that caused me to bite my knuckles so hard that I drew blood. A tiny black kitten was racing, terrified, between cars in the congested intersection, trying desperately to get out of the road to safety. I saw the poor little baby nearly become road pizza four times before I was able to park my car on the roadside, jump out and run into the road after him. To the credit of the other drivers on the street, most had slowed or stopped in an effort to avoid the kitten. I realized I was a much larger target to avoid, and hoped that if they had not seen the kitten, at least they couldn't miss seeing me. Still, my heart pounded as I chased after the little black furry racer.

Now, while this may sound insane to most people, this is nothing unusual for me. I have been doing pet rescue for years, primarily cats, and I have no qualm about crawling into sticky situations when the life of a pet is in jeopardy. I've shimmied inot drainpipes and I've even been known to climb ladders and scale roofs despite the fact that I am terrified of heights. But I realize that not everyone would go to these lengths for an animal, and especially one they do not know. On this particular morning, however, I was surprised. I was not the only one who was running into the intersection. A gentleman and a young lady were with me, and they actually reached the kitten before I did. When I finally caught up, the kitten had jumped into the wheel well of a stopped car, and he was sitting on top of the tire. The man and the lady were attempting to pull the kitten out, but he had his tiny claws glued to the rubber, and it was not easy to move him. I reached in and helped extricate him, and together the three of us pulled him to safety. I cradled him against me, and I could feel his little heart racing in terror. He couldn't have been more than five weeks old.

"He's really tiny," the lady noted. "What can we do with him?" the young man asked. I told them that I was an animal rescue volunteer, and that I would take the kitten with me; he would not have to go to the pound. Relieved, they bid me farewell and returned to their respective cars as I carried the kitten to mine. Wrapping him in my sweartshirt, his face protruding so he could see and breathe, I placed him on the back seat and drove home.

That was over three weeks ago, and I am happy to report that the little black kitten is doing wonderfully. I took him to our vet, who treated him for worms and informed me that the kitten was indeed less than five weeks old when we rescued him. That makes him about eight weeks old now. He is playful and affectionate and so much fun. I named him Indy. I am not sure if that is for Indiana Jones or the Indy 500; I think both fit him well. I have often thought of the kind lady and gentleman who stopped to help little Indy, and I've wished I could contact them to offer my thanks for their consideration for a tiny animal in desperate need. I'm sure they wonder how their rescue effort turned out, and so I hope they read this and know that Indy is thriving and ready for a forever home. He is safe with me until his new family finds him. If anyone is interested in adopting Indy, I can be reached on my blog, I'm Still Kicking; my blog name is ghostriter.

And for the two people who rescued Indy, you're welcome to contact me if you'd like to see him. Who knows? Maybe his forever home is with one of those who saved his life.