Katie doesn't remember life before the farm. The day she was blindfolded and wrestled into the back of that windowless truck was her rebirth.
Ever since, the potent cocktail of drugs and abuse administered by the farmer has kept her mind malleable and her bones brittle. He is God here.

Today, like every other day, she is awakened from her narcotic haze by the clanking of chains, the squeal of a rusted iron bolt, and finally, the intrusion of a shaft of white morning sunlight into her womb-like darkness.
She hears his heavy footsteps approaching her splayed-out form; she had long since given up on the thought of trying to move.

"Mornin', sweetheart!" came the gruff voice of the farmer. The bear stood seven feet tall, and about as much around the waist. She had felt the full weight of his massive frame on her delicate feline form every day since coming to the farm.

"Whew! Boy, you ain't looking too good are ya?"

Katie summons all the willpower and strength left in her body to move her left hand; she wasn't sure why, exactly. Perhaps to prove to herself that she was still something more than a dead pile of organic matter with a fleeting and ever-dwindling flame of consciousness trapped inside.
It takes everything she has left, but she manages to raise a pathetic, shaking index finger about half an inch off the concrete - a triumph of the spirit.

*CRUNCH*

"Well, now. We can't have that, can we, sweetheart?" he says, as he raises his heavy paw back off her fractured hand. She resigns herself back to unconsciousness.

After coming to, Katie can't really feel her hand anymore, but she does feel the Farmer's presence in the room.

"Hey, sleepyhead!"

She notices him holding something - a long iron bar emitting a warm, orange glow.

"Today is a very special day, sugar! You're finally leavin' this place!" he drawls, making his way slowly towards the cat's exposed rear.

*KSSHHHHHH*

White-hot agony coarses through her entire body, emanating from her right buttock where the farmer had thrust his cruel branding rod. 
Every nerve in her body is aflame, but she remains paralysed; forced to feel her flesh bubble and smoke, the acrid smell of singed fur and well-done living meat penetrating her nostrils. 
A single tear escapes her ducts and falls onto the uncaring concrete below.

"Hmmm... 'MEATSLUT #4809'. Well ain't that just the prettiest name!"