I had this really neat kitty, big old longish haired, grey striped cat, bright yellow eyes. It walked just like John Wayne, from the back.
So, I named him Duke.
Duke lived up to his name, he'd eat, and fight, and be the biggest, most aggressive cat. Ran most everyone else off. He loved me, though. I would feed him on the bin where we kept the food, and he would purr so loudly, you'd thought his Mom was a Peterbilt.
We'd had him for about a year or two, where he came from was anyone's guess, people were unduly fond of dumping cats out near our place, since we were in the country. (Snarl...)
But then I couldn't find him. He was gone for about 3 days or so. I was really worried, and Mom and Dad even checked the road, a definite danger to our animals there.
Then I saw Duke jump up on the bin like always, purring. However, this time, I heard little squeaks...
I peeked behind the bin, and there, by an engine block, were 4 tiny kittens. This wasn't a real safe place for them, so we moved the kittens, and Duke, giving them a spot with a bit more warmth, and a bit less mechanical decor.
Oh, and I renamed her Duchess...