My childhood cat was named Gimpy. My sister named him.

When my dad found him, Gimpy was running around on his elbows. He was running so well, my dad had a tough time catching him.

The reason he was running on his elbows was because both his front legs were broken.

The smart thing to do would have been to just let him die in the field. However, my dad foolishly took him home and showed him to me.

We couldn't get him to eat anything. We tried giving him cat food, but he wouldn't eat it. Then we soaked the cat food in milk until it was wet mush, but he still wouldn't eat it. Then I picked him up and put small drops of mushy wet cat food on my arm and he would lick it off my arm while I held him.

I think I was 10 or 11. Of course I fell in love with this kitten. This led to my parents searching for a vet who would save him. They eventually found one and paid an amount to fix him that would be thousands in today's money.

Keep in mind how extraordinary this was. He was a barn cat. The vet who saved him tried to get me to give up. He told me he'd find me a different kitten, but I said I didn't want a different kitten.

Every other kitten born on that farm died. Gimpy lived about 20 years.

His legs were never quite right. One healed strange and bent out at an angle. The other didn't heal and had to be whittled down to a stump. He never stopped trying to use the stump to walk.

He was an absolutely fantastic cat.

All that to say that the word, "gimpy", will forever mean something different and special to me.

"Gimp" just makes me think of Pulp Fiction.