Daniel Moritz street

I was nine years old and in deep mourning over the death of my first cat, who was large and mean. My parents, who hadn’t wanted a cat to begin with, were worried about me (and I suspect were also fully converted into cat-people by then) and decided it was time for us to get a new cat. I adamantly refused, claiming it had not been even a year since J died while pursuing a pigeon. I was not ready to love again.
One late afternoon I was playing in the yard under our apartment building when I heard the cries of a small kitten. I followed the sound and found a small, ferocious ginger cat. He was completely helpless, but didn’t seem to know it, and had the demeanor of a fallen dictator. I was in love. We took him in and he lived a nice, long life with us. He chased other cats, broke or sprained all four limbs in various feline adventures and even adopted his own kitten once.

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