A lot of Free cats, when they hear I'm just "Kitty Jones," figure I hit the streets yesterday. Plenty have pegged me for a one-lived Slaver and have tried to flatten me with their huff-puff. I've kept my claws sharp on their chops.

No, I became Free early. Dogs were involved, and it wasn't pretty. My Kin, Golden Blossom, was teaching us nature skills in an empty lot. There were five of us -- about three moons old -- so we still had birth numbers for names. I was Two; my favorite mate was Four.

The dogs were on us in a heartbeat. Kin screamed "Scatter!" and "Climb!" before they had her, and we dashed. I was running for my life, a slavering Doberman on my tail.

Looming ahead of me on the sidewalk was...grrr....a shimmering golden cat nearly as big as a car!!?! I streaked between its legs and up a tree.

Shaking and panting, I whirled to see that the creature was no giant cat -- how had I imagined that? It was a young Tall --a male -- dressed in white and armed with a long staff. I had turned just in time to see the spinning pole crack against the slobbering monster's back. She staggered --t hen drew herself together to spring at the Tall. He swept the stick against her skull -- a dull thud and she went down.

I was so puffed I thought my hair was leaving my body. My heart was slamming. My eyes throbbed, and a huge, involuntary hiss came out of me. The boy? man? stopped examining the dog and reached for me. I was too petrified to struggle. "Hey, Kitty!" he said softly, curling me against his warm chest. "Le's go on down the road."

As he walked, I soon lost any sense of where my old home was. And even though I had been born a Kept cat, that was not to be my Life any more. The Tall's elders didn't want me. I heard that well enough as I gulped a cold piece of left-over hamburger on the tiny porch. The stick-fighting Tall turned out to be an unusual creature. He came out to give me the news.

"Can't keep yuh, Kitty," he told me as he scratched my chin. "But at leas' you got anothuh life. Go along now. An' don' be sayin Tiny Jones nevuh did nothin fo ya." He opened the door with a parting offer: "Come around times, little sista. I'll try ta leave somethin out on the porch."

I fell into a stunned sleep behind a garbage can. My dreams were savage. They featured me as a giant cat avenging my family on the Dog tribe. At one point the golden lion I had seen in the street gazed at me and commanded: "Remember who preserved you!" When I awoke, I knew my name. It was burned into my mind like a brand.

From the Next Installment of

The Lives of Kitty Jones . . .

When we were wetters, my mates and I had watched Slinkers from windows in our home. My Kindler made it clear that they were both pitiable and detestable. ... Now here I was, on the street -- a Slinker myself. An unwelcome addition to the territory, where pickings were already slim. And I got immediate trouble for my name. The tom-yows and pussinas could live with "Kitty," but Jones? "What kinda Slaver name is that, puss?" they'd sneer. Take me to Episode 3 NOW!