A weekend outing had taken us south from home turf into an Ozark region rich with various attractions.</p><p><em>INDIAN CURIOS</em>, a billboard shouted. <em>FIREWORKS!</em>, said another.</p><p> And not a mile past those, one that promised a bundle of delights: <em>KNIVES, FUDGE, MOCCASINS AND MAPS</em>.</p><p> But the enticement that topped them all was <em>ADULT VIDEOS &mdash; MEN&rsquo;S SPA</em>.</p><p> It conjured the image of libidinous gentlemen sprawled under tanning lamps, receiving pedicures and other services, or lounging together in communal whirlpools while watching hard-core pornography.</p><p> I have to say that none of these caught our fancy. We did, however, happen onto an adventure.</p><p> At a gas station where we stopped for fuel and treats, a kitten was heard mewing desolately from somewhere under the fixtures in the station office.</p><p> It had been there three days, the attendant said &mdash; without food or water. One man had tried to put it out, but it had slipped from his hands, darted back inside and hidden again.</p><p> They were eager to be rid of it.</p><p> Both our daughters, as I&rsquo;ve mentioned in previous columns, are committed cat rescuers. They, and the husband of one of them, were with us on that little trip.</p><p> At first word of this emergency, the Brooklyn girl was flat on the station floor, groping in the tight space under the checkout counter where she thought she&rsquo;d seen the fugitive disappear.</p><p> And sure enough, in a moment she had it, a calico waif &mdash; filthy, terrified, 8 inches long at most and weighing, we would learn, not even a pound &mdash; hardly more than ragged fur over a tiny scaffolding of bones.</p><p> What followed had a slickness born of much practice.</p><p> Within five or maybe 10 minutes, tins of cat food had been procured, a paper cup had been cut down to make a shallow water container, and the small survivor had taken food and drink.</p><p> Already she (calicos are nearly always female) had a name, Belle, because in the same building as the service station there was a Taco Bell.</p><p> Just in that brief time, terror had given way to gratitude. How, we wondered, could such a tiny, frail creature purr with so powerful a motor? But the story had only begun.</p><p> For as the day progressed, she would neither eat nor drink again. So that evening, with the help of a staff member where we were staying, we contacted a veterinarian who on Sunday night met us at his clinic 20 miles or so away.</p><p> She was flea-bitten and woefully dehydrated. Most of two hours he spent, checking and treating her, and in the end he charged what seemed an extremely modest price for his time and skill.</p><p> Like us, he admired her pluck, and was amazed at the rumble of happiness she made.</p><p> The next morning, though, she was weaker, unable even to stand. So back to the clinic she went, this time to stay because the Brooklyn couple had a plane to catch that afternoon.</p><p> Over the next week, telephone calls from the clinic brought increasingly better news. First she was reported to be stable. Then she was eating regular kitten food and putting on weight &mdash; up to nearly a pound and a half.</p><p> And after five days she was ready to be discharged. But discharged to where?</p><p> Two friends &mdash; crazy cat ladies like those in my family &mdash; volunteered to make the nearly 500-mile round trip to fetch Belle back from Arkansas. And our veterinarian here said he&rsquo;d keep her until a home was found &mdash; or, failing that, maybe let her grow to prowl his clinic with the several other resident foundlings.</p><p> So as I write this she&rsquo;s on the way to a future made possible by a fair number of good people &mdash; all driven by a shared conviction.</p><p> Which is that anything so small and needy, but with that fierce a will to live, deserves a chance.