I picked up the smallest kitten I had ever seen, alone, with a big voice that didn’t match her size. She fit in the palm of my hand and looked no more than six weeks old. I searched for her mother or other kittens, but there was no one — just this tiny little girl.

I brought her inside, warmed some milk, and fed her with an eyedropper. She was starving. I hoped my female cat, Minnie, would take her in, but she wanted nothing to do with the kitten. So I made a bed for her in the basement, kept her warm, and fed her through the night. I blocked off my other pets so she would be safe.

The next morning, I called my vet, who advised me to bring the kitten in. She estimated her age at six to eight weeks and told me she was too young to be without her mother. I explained that I had looked and would look again, but where we lived in the country, people often abandoned unwanted animals. I bought special kitten formula and a tiny bottle, though for the first weeks the eyedropper and syringe worked best.

When we returned home, I named her Picciridda, which means little girl in Sicilian. I told myself I would care for her until she was strong enough to find a new home.

Picciridda had the prettiest little face and an incredible will to live. She loved cuddling and would always bury her face into the crook of my elbow — something she would do her entire life. Days turned into weeks, and she grew strong and healthy.

Even though she was tiny, she made sure the dogs kept their distance with her loud, commanding meow. Minnie continued to ignore her, but my male cat Rudy — short for Rudolph, named because of his rough red nose when I found him — took her under his wing. He protected her from Minnie and taught her all his tricks, like pushing open the bathroom door with his nose and paws when he wanted attention.

When I finally decided it was time to find Picciridda a new home, my entire family made it very clear: she already had one. She was going nowhere. So we became a full house — three cats and two dogs.

Miss Picciridda soon became Peachy, and she officially adopted us as her family.

Peachy had another close call when she crawled into the engine of my Astro van on a cold late November morning. Our animals had free access to the garage, and I didn’t know she was there. When I started the van, I saw fur fly from under the hood. I was devastated. I shut the engine off immediately, opened the hood, and saw fur everywhere — but no Peachy.

I searched and called for her for 45 minutes with my neighbour’s help. Terrified, I finally left for work, believing she had crawled away to die and that I would never see her again. I was heartbroken all day.

When I came home, I called her name one more time — and there she was, limping toward me, partially bald on her right side. She was badly hurt but alive. I picked her up gently, and she immediately purred and tucked her face into my elbow.

X-rays the next day showed severe damage to her front right leg. The nerves were no longer attached, and my vet suggested amputation. I disagreed. I treated her leg daily with my SCENAR machine, and little by little she grew stronger. Her nails began growing back within weeks. Peachy limped for the rest of her life, but she kept her leg.

About a year later, Rudy woke me in the night, frantic. Peachy hadn’t come inside. We lived among coyotes and wild dogs, so this terrified me. In the middle of the night, I heard a loud MEOW — it was Peachy. We ran outside with a flashlight, yelling, and scared off the coyotes. Peachy came to me shaking, her tail wet but her body unharmed. I held her all night. By morning, she and Rudy were ready for breakfast as if nothing had happened.

Peachy survived many moves, many changes, and many scares. When Rudy eventually passed away, she was heartbroken and stopped eating for days. He had been her protector. With love, patience, and spoiling, she found herself again.

She became the Princess of the house — until a tiny black injured kitten named Midnight arrived. Peachy was unimpressed. Midnight persisted, and eventually she accepted him, always making sure he knew she was the boss. Later came Mr. Cook, who she tolerated with the same royal authority. The boys adored each other; Peachy ruled them both.

In Hamilton, Peachy adjusted to indoor life with a catio — not happily at first, but faithfully. In 2016, she became very ill. We were told only half of one kidney was functioning and that she likely wouldn’t survive. With weekly hydration at the clinic for four years, Peachy defied every expectation.

In September 2016, she disappeared again. After days of searching, we learned a little girl had picked her up, worried about her limp. When Peachy was returned to me, she buried her face into my elbow — home again.  June 1993 – July 2021