Was her hat crooked?
Was her belt loose?
Craning her head to investigate, Anne, for the first time, saw Rusty.
Trotting along behind her, close to her heels, was quite the most forlorn specimen of the cat tribe she had ever beheld.

The animal was well past kitten-hood, lank, thin, disreputable looking.

Pieces of both ears were lacking, one eye was temporarily out of repair, and one jowl ludicrously swollen.

As for color, if a once black cat had been well and thoroughly singed the result would have resembled the hue of this waif's thin, draggled, unsightly fur.
Anne "shooed," but the cat would not "shoo." As long as she stood he sat back on his haunches and gazed at her reproachfully out of his one good eye; when she resumed her walk he followed.

Anne resigned herself to his company until she reached the gate of Patty's Place, which she coldly shut in his face, fondly supposing she had seen the last of him.
But when, fifteen minutes later, Phil opened the door, there sat the rusty-brown cat on the step.