Hobo Hill was rocky, stumpy, and covered with tall grasses, affording plenty of cat-sized crevices and caves for shelter from the rain. A wide stream ran down the hill most of the year, to rest along the highway at the bottom. The hill was alive with rodents and rabbits, insects and birds, and with cats. Some years before, two cats had been thrown out of a car on that highway and climbed the hill for the first time. One of them, Sabra, had given birth to kittens on the hill and lived through the winter. Now the cats of the hill were a large, ever-changing number that none of them knew.

When the winds whispered warm caresses and the sunshine emptied the rocks of shadowy dangers, the cats came out to enjoy their leisure after the hunts. When the winds shrieked cold unfriendliness and the sun's warmth disappeared, so did the cats.

If occasional groups of humans came noisily up or down with their backpacks and walking sticks, the cats remained hidden. And if some new lone cat found his way to the hill, he would be carefully observed by many pairs of glinting eyes, seldom befriended, but allowed to stay or go as he chose. He always stayed.

Those in the colony who, like Sabra, lived on year after year, did so because of their strength, superior intellect and hunting prowess. So it was that the colony became a race of what might be called supercats. This may not have happened in a colony of cats trapped in a city, exposed to many more dangers and diseases, but it happened on Hobo Hill.

It was autumn, a time that human intruders came more often, when a young orange tabby was lost on the hill by the humans who brought him there and they left without him. Sabra observed this new cat with unease, because he had been with humans. As days went on, trees became bare of their dry leaves and winds grew harsh and chill. She watched the new male go hesitantly toward other humans when they stopped to eat. He didn't let himself be caught, but he did allow himself to be seen several times. Thus one day a group of humans with long hair, hats and binoculars also got a glimpse of Sabra, her long black coat shining coppery in the unfiltered sun, before she jumped off her high rock. It made her shiver all night, and not from cold.

There was too much human activity on the hill, and their surprise at such an invasion caused many of the colony cats to seek uncovered places where they could see what was going on. So many of them had now been seen by human eyes. Then the boxy traps began to appear, crushing dry growth and yawning open with pieces of smelly fish inside. A white panel truck began stopping at the side of the highway for long periods of time.

The cats could hear voices, even from their hiding places, when the wind was still and sound carried clearly in the empty air, phrases like "..birdwatchers saw two of them", "..lost my kitty here", "..family said he was tame", "..officer said there are dozens", "..killers of birds", "..endangered", "..catch all of 'em".

And the cats began to disappear. Sabra heard angry yowling sometimes when the traps were carried away. The smaller number of cats clustered closer together, a foolish risk, she thought. The dogs on leashes came, noisy brutes who gave plenty of warning. The tall boys with rifles came, quiet brutes who did not. Sabra climbed higher and watched from safer places, alone. When she awoke one cold morning and licked snow from her nose, the cats of Hobo Hill were no more.

Where is Hobo Hill? It may be close to you or to me, or it may not. Where is Sabra? She is living in my heart. I hope she will in yours.