The Warmth of the Pile

The old barn offered little shelter when the Great Frost set in. The wind cut through the wooden slats like icy claws, threatening the lives of the stray cats who had claimed it as their home. Their only defense was each other. Every night, they would huddle together, forming a dense, vibrating pile of fur and shared body heat. At the center lay the frailest kittens and the oldest queens. But someone had to take the outer edge, where the wind bit deepest. Rusty, a fierce, battle-scarred tomcat known for his solitary gruffness, claimed the windward side. Night after night, he positioned his broad back against the draft. His thick fur became stiff with frost, his limbs ached, and his sleep was fractured by the cold. The other cats assumed he was too tough to feel it. But one night, a young kitten found itself pushed to the edge. The cold was agonizing, stripping away its heat in minutes. Before despair could set in, Rusty firmly nudged the kitten back toward the warm center and took its place. Only then did the clowder realize: Rusty was not impervious to the cold. He felt every freezing draft. He simply chose to bear it so that the others wouldn't have to. His fierce exterior hid a heart that burned with the ultimate warmth—the willingness to sacrifice his own comfort for the survival of the group.