I got my cat Rigby last November when he was a tiny kitten.

My sister found him curled up under a tree in the snow at my parent's house. She brought it inside, and my Mom had her put it in the camper because they have two dogs and she didn't want it scared. My mother called me frantically trying to find a place for this kitten to go while she looked for the owner, saying Dad just wanted to put the kitten outside and he'd go home on his own. It was ~17 degrees outside and my Mom and Sister were having none of that. So I figured I'd help and keep the kitten for a few days while they put up posters and stuff.

I had no intention of keeping the kitten. I was 19 and had only been living on my own for 4 to 5 months, and I didn't think I was ready for the costs of owning a pet. Mom was wearing Dad out on the idea of keeping him if nobody claimed him, but when I went to bed that first night and this tiny ball of fluff jumped up onto my bed and curled up right next to my face, purring like a diesel engine, I knew I wasn't going to be giving this cat up to anyone that didn't own him. It's funny how quickly you can bond with an animal. He had been named Rigby by the end of the second day.

Nobody came forward after a week. The last thing we could think of was taking him in to check for a microchip. That was the most nerve wracking drive I had driven in a long time. If there was a microchip, the vet would take him right there and contact the owner. I'd have no more contact with the little guy. The vet waived the microchip detector all around the cat, and when it beeped I thought all was lost. Then she told me that beep meant there was no microchip found, and he was mine. After talks of what he'd need (vaccinations, flea meds as a precaution, a microchip, etc) she told me the kitten was three months old, and the cutest kitten she'd ever seen. I took Rigby home, and he's been my pal ever since.