In 1974 I was sharing a house in the country, about 100m from a highway and a kilometre to the next place. Something disturbed my housemate's dobermann at the front door, which I opened to find a roughly 3 month old kitten with a broken rear leg, obviously domesticated to have approached the house. The vet said it had probably been broken 2-3 days by that time, and he was sufficiently starving to eat with complete disregard for the confused dobermann.
I named him Jesus Christ Supercat. Here he is a year later after I moved into the city. It is a scan made decades later from a cheap print, hence the colour. I wanted this because it captures his contentment on my lap.

He was my close companion for 18 years. This is late in his life, diligently instructing our child's young cat in important cat behaviours.

We buried him together as a family, composed on his favourite sheepskin rug.