For FeFe

When I was younger, my mother took home a 3 week old kitten. Even then, I was very much attached with infants, of any kind, there's something about their dependence and their unconditional adoration for you that made you feel special and not so alone. So when I first laid eyes on Kitty, I was utterly smitten. I had never had a pet before.

Her fur reminded me of a ball of lint and her face, her face resembled the tiny etching of Simba in the Lion King. I would always peek in on her to catch glimpses of her napping. She was the tiniest thing I had ever seen, curled up with her tail, the length of a pinky, tucked in. She was easily the most precious thing I have ever owned.

Weeks pass and she grew. She was always mewling, always so hungry. She probably got that from me, there are times where I'm a bottomless pit. I'd rub her tummy when she roll over to play with a tassel; I loved her white tummy and grey stripes. I didn't want others to see, but I'd kiss her so often that she probably despised me.

On the day Kitty peed on me, all I could think was, 'I thought cats were supposed to be cleaner than dogs.' But those days were forgotten, replaced by memories of times where she began to pounce and play tag and jump off of the couch. And when she really started to move, she was always getting yelled at, running into the shower stall or playing with bags of garbage. She was a mischievous one.

Those memories ended when my dad gave her away. I didn't get a chance to say goodbye, but I suppose if I did get the chance, I wouldn't have been able to.

But when I enter my room I still smell her and I still expect her to run out the door. Though, she's no longer there, I still expect her to wait at the door, looking at me with pleading eyes to let her out to play.