My childhood pet - in fact, my pet for most of my life - was a tabby cat by the name of Tara. Rescued from being put down at the age of just a few months, Tara was with our family for 21 years, finally succumbing to a stroke in 2009.
People say cats aren't as affectionate as dogs, but these are generally people who have never owned a cat. In a way, it's the same as human beings, some animals or people go in for over the top displays of emotion and some prefer the quiet contenment that comes from two good friends enjoying each other's company. You can tell I grew up in a cat house (no, not as in brothel you sordid bastards), as I'm much more content to just sit and enjoy being in people's company rather than jump up and hump their legs as soon as they walk in the room.
Anyway, in the case of my cat, she was very good at just being there. When I'd had bad days at school (and there were plenty of those over the years), after the standard parental post-school interrogation, she'd just sit on my knees while I watched TV or whatever and barely move all night, even though normally she'd be more likely to be out on the street fighting (read: scratching the hell out of) the nieghbours' dogs . It sounds stupid and simple but it was always a comfort.
It's been three years (good God, where did that time go?) since the day I buried her in the back garden. Where there was a parched and barren square of ground, the grass has regrown now because I can't bring myself to play football out there any more and there's a small depression in the ground where the cardboard box we pressed into service as a coffin has decomposed and fallen away.
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