THE TAIL OF THIRTEEN WHISKERS!
DECEMBER 1961 “CHOCHONE , you’ve outdone yourself,” my Papa chuckled, peering into the basket. “Look at ‘em, all curled up like little black pearls.” “They’re precious,” I agreed, stroking the soft fur of the cat with a single white paw. She was the runt of the litter, but she had the loudest meow. “I’m thinkin’ we should call this one Spot, for that dash of white,” he suggested with a twinkle in his eye. I nodded. “Spot it is.” The house was filled with the comforting sounds of purring and the occasional squeak as the kittens played. It was a stark contrast to the howling wind outside, which had been a constant companion since the first snowfall. Chochone had picked the perfect time to have her litter. The warmth from their tiny bodies seemed to radiate through the basement, even though the furnace was chugging away just a few feet away. FEBRUARY 1962 “IT’S GONNA be a cold one tonight,” Papa warned, peering through the dusty basement window. The snow had already started t...