I couldn’t find any photos of my old cat, so here’s one of Anton, my dad’s pug. One little fuzzy bugger is the same as the next, right?
Growing up, we had a cat.
You know what? That statement isn’t quite accurate. We actually had several cats. But there was one cat that sort of stood out from the rest. A spry little calico with markings that I still remember by heart: one eye was rimmed in black, the other in orange, like a little harlequin. She was brilliant and affectionate and in the 17 years that we spent together, I can only remember her scratching me once, unintentionally.
When we finally had to put her down, after a miserable tumor in her face made it impossible for her to eat, I cried. My brother cried. My grandmother cried. And my mother cried, as she pulled the cat into her arms, looked down into her face and said, “Honey, I really hope you have a soul.”
The point is, we loved that cat. As much as was sanely possible for someone to love a cat, we did.
“Sanely” being the operative word here.