The Orange One

My cats are my friends. They always have been and always will be. In fact, despite having gone through about a hundred farm cats, I remember them all. One in particular.
It was orange with white tipped ears and jumped from the tire it lived in like it was born to fly. At only six weeks, it was a spry thing with more guts to it's name than John Wayne. I was most fond of it because it was most fond of me. After spending my summer morning petting its downy fir, I would start back to the house from the farm road and look behind me. As I anticipated, the orange ball of fluff was right behind me, mewing like I was its mamma. We became the best of buddies that summer of my eighth grade year until one fateful day.
Mom and Dad surprised my sister and I by sending us to Florida to visit family. Ecstatic as I was for the upcoming event, I felt a sense of doom for my pumpkin colored kitten. What if I never saw her again? The trip came and went happily but I still wondered about my kitten. She was the first thing I asked mom about as we drove back from the airport. Mom looked real sad for a minute and told me about my kitten. It's mother had gotten annoyed at my constant pestering of her babies and so she moved them to under the porch. It was under the porch she cared for them until eventually both her and all of her kittens left one day...all of her kittens but little orange. Little orange hadn't come out and all the food in the world wouldn't tempt it to come out. Chances are, it had died already.
I refused to believe her cruel joke and when we got home I abandoned all thoughts of unpacking my luggage but went straight to the hole under the porch. There I called to my kitten in a desperate, needy way, hating the world for letting such a beautiful creature as mine die. My voice cracked and I shook uncontrollably as every bit of motivation I used to get my kitten out was rejected. My tears were futile.