We were leaving Frenchglen, leaving the Blitzen Valley, leaving Malheur, leaving Harney county, returning home to Portland.

We’d gone about five miles. David hit the brakes and started backing up and said: “I think you’re going to like it…it’s wildlife. But. I’m worried, it’s by the side of the road.” Reversing.

He stopped and I could see on the shoulder a cat. A kitten. Here in nowhere. As soon as I opened my door, it started meowing, a long, solid, permanent meow.

“Oh, no,” I lamented, “I don’t know if it’s OK.”

The kitten, pale, perhaps part Siamese or Himalayan, blue eyes, got up and came toward the car. I had a moment of nerves. Was it diseased? Wild? Did it have rabies?

It complained and walked under the car into the shade. I got out and put a hand down and it sniffed me and then started rubbing against me and purring. I picked it up and it was piteously thin. Meow, meow meow.

What a joy of a boy-kitten! Now cheered to be with people, he purred and his meows were more discrete if yet constant. Meow, meow, meow. He stayed in my arms and didn’t squirm, even as we drove the windy several miles, slowly, back to Frenchglen.

We gave him to the proprietor of the Frenchglen hotel, John, so he could investigate whether any of the nearby ranchers was missing a cat. I somehow doubt it, or doubt that anyone would own up to it, but John seemed unfluttered.

“We may be adopting another kitty-cat,” he said.

We’ll have to see what happens. How long the little guy was out there was hard to say. Who put him there impossible to say. Accident? Abandonment? It’s hot and empty out there. Far from help, anyone. Poor kitty. Better now.