Two summers ago, my mom brought him home from a yard sale. He’d been in a box marked “Free Kittens.” She named him Rambo to bolster his courage and ensure that he’d be a good hunter.
It was very Apocalypse Now. But without the spikes. Give him credit, though--unlike Isis, he lacks opposable thumbs, and I believe whittling sharp sticks would've been beyond his ken.
Now, like my parents, Rambo spends his winters down south (he’s a very good traveler). From the Free Kitten Box into the lap of luxury—it’s quite the success story. Nowadays, he seems perfectly content with his stuffed catnip mice as opposed to the real thing. (Yet I do wonder what he would've made of those baby raccoons...)