Q is for Queen...

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...

Huh?

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...