The hair of the cat

Somewhere among my belongings, either in boxes from my mom’s house or in something I already had in Maryland I found a formerly white envelope with the words Cinder Patrick, 1 year written on the front in red or dark pink ink. Inside was a small thatch of black fur.

Cinder was my second cat — my father, a self-described cat-hater, brought her home to me when I was 13. She was a one-person cat and everyone else hated her. We loved each other.

She lived through three moves, from my parent’s house to my first apartment, to Pittsburgh with Dean and me and finally to Alexandria where she died at the ripe old age of 17.

Sorry, Cinder, but this memory is going in the trash — the fur might go in the garden though.

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