I've never been much of a cat person. It's not just that I'm allergic to them, though I am; it's more that they don't seem grateful enough. There's something detached about cats, something fickle, that reminds me of the pretty, popular girls that used to go to my junior high school. They're nice to you when they need you for something (to copy your Latin homework, to top off a depleted bowl of Whiskas), but otherwise, they can take you or leave you. For me, and my easily wounded pride, the wild, tail-thumping enthusiasm of dogs has always been preferable.

So when my husband and I first moved to our apartment three years ago, it took a while for me to even register the posse of stray cats that lived in the parking lot next to our building. I saw them, sure, slinking around the cars and garbage bins: a band of scruffy, easily spooked creatures that scattered and hid whenever anyone came near. But, I didn't give them much thought. This was the city, and there were probably dozens of other cats (and god knows what else) living on the streets of our neighborhood.

One day, though, I saw one up close. It was a blustery winter afternoon, and I had just pulled into my usual space in the lot. Jumping out, I glanced at the car parked next to mine-its engine was ticking, cooling in the chilly air-and was rattled to see a pair of frightened, wide, green eyes staring back at me. One of the cats-a raggedy little thing with black and white fur, was crouched up inside one of the wheel wells, trying to stay warm. Her face was a mess of nicks and scratches. I bent down to have a better look at her, but she slipped beneath the car so quickly she seemed to have evaporated.

After that-I'm not sure why-I started keeping an eye out for her. I was pretty sure it was a her, anyway; she was awfully small. Once in a while I caught a glimpse of her-usually just a flash of her tiny, dirty tuxedo of a coat-as I walked to or from the parking lot. Some of the other, bigger cats seemed to hang out together, near a dumpster or beneath the same car, but she was always alone.

Then one night, there was a snowstorm. It started in the late afternoon, and by the time Andrew and I got home from work, fat, cookie-sized flakes were hurtling out of the blackened sky. To get from the car to our building, we had to wade through shin-deep drifts.

Once we'd had dinner, Andrew wandered over to the window with his coffee cup. He looked out at the swirling flakes, shaking his head in amazement, and then peered down toward the street.

"Oh, wow," he said suddenly. "You know that little stray cat you like? She's down there in the snow."

I rushed to the window. Under the streetlights, I could see the cat moving-swimming, really-through the thick snow in the parking lot. There was a long, weaving trail behind her that practically circled the lot. All the parked cars were completely blanketed now; there was no place for her to take shelter.

My dislike for cats seemed to go on hiatus that night. Without thinking, I found myself rooting through our kitchen cabinets until I found a can of tuna fish; then I grabbed a couple of old towels from the linen closet, shrugged on my coat, and went downstairs.

Outside, the snow was furious, marvelous, coming down like gangbusters.

The cat, nearly up to her neck, stared at me but didn't move as I stomped out into the lot-frozen with fear, or maybe just frozen in place. I skirted the edge of the lot, leaving lots of space between us, until I got to our car. Then, with her still watching me, I bent and half-swiped, half-dug the snow out from under our front bumper, until I'd cleared a space down to the bare pavement. Then I stuffed the old towels down there into a sort of nest, popped the top on the can of tuna fish, and waved the can around in the air so (I hoped) the cat would smell it.

"Puss!" I called. "Come have some food!"

At the sound of my voice, the cat ducked and her ears flattened against her head; still, she didn't run away. Slowly, I went back around the lot the way I'd come, and glanced at her once more before going back inside. What I'd done wasn't enough, I knew. But I didn't know what else to do.

When I got back upstairs, Andrew was still watching out the window.

"She's heading for the car," he announced. Through the glass, I saw her, humping slowly, effortfully, toward our parking spot. After what seemed like ten minutes, she finally made it into the clearing beneath our bumper-where I only saw her for a second, caked with snow. Then she crawled out of sight.

I never found out if she bedded down in the bundled-up towels; they'd frozen into a stiff knot by the next morning. But the can of tuna, also crusted with frost, was empty. I didn't see her for a few days, but once the sun came out and the snow started to pool and melt, I came home one evening and caught her looking at me from underneath a neighbor's van. It was a long, blinking look: of hunger? Recognition? Or maybe, possibly, gratitude?

I bought a case of cat food the next day. And I've been buying them ever since.

This article was used with permission of DivineCaroline.com. Divine Caroline is a website where pet-lovers like you can read and contribute stories, reviews, and forums. Please visit our bustling community soon.  Reviewed by Amy I. Attas, V.M.D.

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