She had four kittens in the spring, all of them born hissing and spitting with their eyes still closed. But they were too adorable to resist, and even John, who fancies himself as a confirmed cat-hater, could be found playing with them on the stoop of the shed. We succeeded in socializing two of the kittens, my favorite of whom was Goldie, who would cry pitifully on the stoop of the shed until someone came out to play with him.

Junior, the silver tabby, was on the verge of trustfulness, and it wasn't until Junior was killed when I noticed John's pensive mood. I knew the previous two weeks had been difficult for him, but he was always the kind of man who kept his emotions in check, the kind of man with enough courage and strength to be a volunteer firefighter.

We joked about his firefighting duties like we joked about the farm chores, "Someone got to do it." But we both knew that firefighting involves more than wearing a smart uniform at fire department functions or speeding with blazing lights and adrenalin to the scene of an emergency. It's more than a way to enjoy camaraderie or have a chance to be a hero, because lately, there had been no heroes. It was just a bunch of guys doing what most will never have the stomach to do.

John came home one night from the first of two fatal auto accidents, his strong face showing no hint of repulsion as he described the horrifying details, but I could see in his eyes a haunting sense of shock and awe.

"He was so young," John said. "His family was on their way to the scene, so we had to get him out fast. We didn't want his parents to see him like that." Such are the concerns that run within a close-knit community. The young man died on his way to the hospital, and John could only sigh for the loss of a young life and try to forget about it in the midst of his normal activities.

A week later he found himself racing to the scene of a tragic head-on collision. Another young person died instantly, and John had the enviable job of guarding the body from on-lookers. John returned home that night and sat silently for awhile, unable to sleep, the gory images drifting in and out of his thoughts. The cruel games that death plays with the minds of the living kept torturing him; one moment you are young and alive, and the next moment you are asleep to the world...

When Junior died, John became weary of the games of death. I saw him sitting at the picnic table, staring into the dusk and petting Mama cat as if he were making peace with her. "I didn't mean to kill your baby."

"It's not your fault, John," I tried to console him. He couldn't have known that two of the kittens, Goldie and Junior, had crawled up under his truck, exploring the intricate spaces around the engine. It wasn't the time of year to expect cats to seek the warmth of an engine recently in use. Junior was fatally injured when John started the truck in the morning.

"I know," John said, "but I still can't help feeling bad about it. I don't even like cats, but that doesn't make it any easier to kill them. But it was already dying and I just couldn't let it suffer..."
"John, you did what you had to do."
"It's not just the kitten," he finally admitted. He stroked the cat gently, quietly, making her purr. It's not easy to do what has to be done.

We both gazed into the setting sun, contemplating life and death and trying to fend off the nagging worry about what had become of Goldie. He had run off in a panic after the truck started, with blood splattered on his head, and we had no idea if he was injured, if he was alive, or if he was dead. I had scavenged through the shed, scoured the woods and even checked woodchuck holes in an effort to find him. There was no sign of him.

Every morning I would glance out at the shed, hoping he might magically appear on the stoop where he so often waited for us, but as the days passed the dreaded thought that he must have crawled off into the woods somewhere to die became more of a reality. Several days later, as if by miracle, I heard his wailing cries and saw him sitting on the stoop! He was as overjoyed to see me as I was to see him, and he cried and cried as I held him, as if to tell me about his incredible journey. His rear leg was broken but had already started to set. He sat in my lap for an hour, purring until he fell asleep.

For Goldie, we found a special home with some friends. His leg healed and he became an exceptional pet who, according to his owners, will fetch a ball just like a dog. I'll never forget the glimpse of hope, the happy ending that tiny kitten allowed us to find during a difficult time.