I heard her softly crying from behind a stack of boxes at the back of the dressing room area. There she was, lying on the floor, curled into a ball, shivering.

She must have been very frightened, sensing her enemies all around, hearing them, smelling them. I picked her up and wrapped her in my overcoat. I've got to get her out of here, I thought. But how? There were side and rear exits, but I knew that there would be security and guard dogs watching them. The only way was through the arena and straight out the front.

Holding her close, I started down the long aisle in front of the gallery. The arena floor was to my right, and some eight or ten feet lower, but I still could see the fangs, the teeth, the claws. The walk to the end of the arena seemed to take an eternity.

At last we entered the foyer, passed through the great entrance door and out onto the street.

I saw a line of waiting taxis at the sidewalk as I passed beneath the marquee. Large electric letters announced, "Eastminster Dog Show."

Safe at last. The kitten in my coat pocket started to purr.

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