Puskas was found on the day before Christmas one year. It was freezing cold, with frost crunching up the yellow grass and lining dry, old leaves, and my Pan was taking a walk in the garden. Right by the upside-down rowboat, he was attacked by a squirming mass of black fur.
It quickly dissolved into four tiny kittens, only a few weeks old, who decided to crawl up his legs and into his arms instead. Someone had left them there in the cold, to be discovered or to die, and thanks to my hero, it was the former.
Puskas was one of these little kittens. Pan and his sister named him Curly, because he could curl up his little tail complelety, like a piglet. But then he moved in with my parents, and got the name Puskas instead, for his excellent football skills. He's not so helpless anymore, and he certainly isn't tiny. But he can still curl up his tail like a corkscrew.
