I am looking for that little kitten, the one that my puppies attacked, but I can't find her. I think she's gone. I am climbing up the bales of hay that are stacked nearly to the ceiling of the barn to check on Charlotte Gray and the remaining kittens. The calico one that is usually so shy is curled up in the straw nest that the kids and I made for them way up in the rafters. This one is the smallest, and meows in a shrill, high voice, as I pick her up for the very first time. I hold the patchwork kitten close to my chest, wrap it up in my arms, and in a few minutes the little thing is purring, enjoying my warmth, I think.

I'm wondering if it is a boy or a girl. So I turn the kitten over gently in my hands, and I've never seen anything like what I see. She is deformed, or sick, or something, I don't know what. I feel ill. And she is crying now. I sit her down, gently in the straw, as if she is a factory second from the china teacup store that will break in my hands if I don't watch out or she will break my heart.

Why does God let things like this happen? I don't understand.

I am standing in the pasture outside of the barn with my head pressed against Toby's furry neck. He smells like hay, and dirt, and sunshine. I lean into the warmth of the big draft horse, and wrap myself up in him like a blanket.

This world is a terrible and a wonderful place.