I was maybe 11 years old at the time. My family-—my parents, sisters and I, our two dogs and cat-—were living in an RV parked on a relative’s property in rural Maryland. I had decided to take one of the dogs for a walk, and we perused the property, exploring out past the barn and muddy horse stables and into the open field at the back of the plot.

When we came back, I noticed a kitten hiding under the retractable step leading into the RV. The cat--a scruffy little calico--was one of two strays my sisters and I had helped our aunt catch at a neighbor's house. Catch ‘em and keep ‘em, she said, so the four of us spent an afternoon chasing the tiny critters around the hedges, until finally bringing them home and feeding them on my aunt’s screened-in porch.

Neither of the cats seemed to trust people. Neither purred, and the calico seemed frail and fearful. However, they eventually got used to life with us, and after a few weeks were let free to romp around the lot. They kept their distance, but seemed to be growing more confident and enjoying their new home.

So on the day the dog and I were coming back to the trailer, I considered it a good sign that the kitten didn’t run away and instead stood her ground under the step. I wanted the dog to meet her. We had never had an issue with our cat and the dogs before, and I figured an introductory sniff was all it’d come to, so I brought the dog over to take a look. She spotted the kitten. Then she snapped.

It all happened very quickly, her lunging forward, barking and chomping her teeth as she dove under the step. I bore down on the leash and pulled back as best I could. I finally got her away from the camper, and she settled down. Looking back, I saw the kitten, still there under the step. She didn’t move for a long time after that. Not until one of the grown-ups came and took her away.

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